Lupo Mutaret
by Nix Blaque
Summary: A hunt gone wrong leads to consequences that none of the Winchester's ever could have predicted. All three will have to adapt in order  to survive, particularly Sam. Pre-Stanford AU - Sam is seventeen, Dean is twenty-one.
1. Chapter 1

_"A hunt gone wrong leads to consequences that none of the Winchester's ever could have predicted. All three will have to adapt in order to survive, particularly Sam.  
>Pre-Stanford AU - Sam is seventeen, Dean is twenty-one."<em>

* * *

><p><strong>[1]<strong>

"Man, these things are freaking _amazing!"_ Dean grinned, listening to the slight hiss and crackle of static over the walkie-talkies. "Don't you think so, Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam drawled sarcastically. "Really amazing. I seriously can't believe how excited you are over _walkie-talkies_. I swear to God you're just a big kid. You do realise that you're twenty-one, right?"

"Shut up," Dean snorted, and then, slightly more seriously. "I still can't see anything. You think that this whole thing was bogus? Bobby getting back at us for accident ruining his '_filing system'_ when we were wrestling last week?"

"Nah," Sam replied around an answering snort. "As pissed as he was, Bobby wouldn't lie about something hurting kids. Or witches. And dad always does his research."

_Eating kids_, Dean corrected mentally, and then shivered a little – glancing convulsively around the large warehouse storeroom. He _hated_ witches.

"True," Dean acknowledged, and then, "But the west side is seriously all clear. Where are you? I'll head over and we can do the rest together."

Sam didn't reply.

"Sam?" Dean was frowning now, all traces of amusement gone. "Sammy? _Sammy!"_

A burst of static interrupted his frantic snapping, followed by what sounded like a large bang on Sammy's end; a human shout of pain (_Sammy's_ shout of pain, because Dean knew every noise that kid could make) a strangely animalistic _whine_, and then a snarl and a second, human scream.

Female, this time.

It didn't really matter – Dean was already moving as fast as his legs could carry him through the warehouse, to the last room that Sam had informed him was clear, and then straight past it when he saw a tell-tale flashlight beam from the room at the end of the hall.

He didn't slow his pace until he saw the blood splattered onto the door, and even then it was only to draw his gun and gently nudge the door open with the toe of his boot.

Nothing moved in the room beyond, and Dean abandoned all pretence of caution – slamming the door open and scanning the room quickly. There was a crumpled form on the floor, directly in his line of sight, and the empty eyes were staring out of a dead face that he recognised – Ivy Deveroux. Their witch.

Unfortunately, Sammy was nowhere to be seen, and the fact that she'd had her throat torn out in a more than animalistic fashion was more seriously disturbing when paired with this – and the fact that Dean could see shreds of what appeared to be Sam's jeans, and his gun, lying abandoned on the floor – his flashlight illuminating the room in a wavering pattern as it rolled across the floor.

"Sammy?" Dean called, and froze when a sinister-sounding growl came from behind him. Slowly turning, Dean came face-to-face with a large dog (which, his mind quickly corrected, was actually a wolf). For a second Dean froze in fear, and then the wolf met his eyes, and his fear was replaced by anger and distress.

Because never before had he seen a wolf with eyes that exact colour. A honey-brown mixed with bright green and a dazzling blue.

"Sammy? That you?"

The wolf dipped his head once, slowly and evenly, and damn if it wasn't the closest thing that Dean had ever seen to a canine-nod.

"Well, shit."

-o-

Dean loved his brother, he really did, but that didn't mean that he was willing to tarnish his baby's leather interior with dog fur and witch blood; which was how, nearly twenty minutes after discovering that his brother was now a lot less human, Dean abandoned his efforts to find a tarp in the trunk, and settled on fishing out an armful of blankets that had been put in the 'we really need to wash these like, _now'_ pile.

Some of them were matted with dirt, and some with blood, but the substances had long since dried, so Dean felt a little more reassured about letting them touch his baby's seats then letting his brother.

He still wet a cloth with some holy water before returning to Sam's side of the Impala, frowning when he noted that Sam was sitting, slouching against the side of the car, his head resting on the cool metal.

It was only then that Dean saw the thick, red blood dripping from the side that Sam had (probably deliberately) kept facing away from him since he stumbled out of the shadows.

Suddenly the cloth in Dean's had took on a whole new meaning.

"Dammit, Sammy, why didn't you tell me that you were hurt?" Dean snapped without thinking, and the Wolf – _Sam_ – blinked his eyes open lethargically to give his older brother a baleful stare that said it all. "Right, part of the whole canine deal. Sammy no talk. Seriously, you couldn't have just walked on my other side so that I could have seen it, though?"

Sam's body shuddered, and Dean stopped cleaning the wound to hold his wolf-brother steady, not at all liking the way that the wolf's knees were trembling with what Dean perceived to be effort.

"Easy," He muttered. "God, the light out here's awful. Look, I can already tell that it's going to need stitches, so I'm just going to bind it here with a pressure bandage and stitch you up at the motel – alright?"

The wolf's head dipped in agreement again, and Dean quickly wrapped him up. Sam didn't move, and Dean didn't waste a moment groaning at him, just scooped him up and placed him gently in the back seat – drawing a few blankets around him.

As a kid, Sammy had loved to take as many blankets and pillows as he could, and turn the backseat into a nest. Even in motel rooms at the age of seventeen, Sam always found a way to draw the blankets up around him tightly and hunker down.

Dean often wondered if being so tightly wrapped up made Sam feel safe somehow – provided some sense of stability that their life – and their father – had failed to provide.

But Dean was a Winchester. He never asked.

-o-

Sam needed thirteen stitches in the end, one for every witch in the God-forsaken coven, and Dean snorted at the bitter irony of it.

Dean hadn't bothered to strip the bed before placing his blanket-clad brother on it, and he knew that his father was going to go nuts. Although, actually, he'd probably be more freaked out about the whole 'Sam's a wolf' thing than the money they were going to have to pay for the bedding, but whatever.

That was, if he ever answered the phone.

Dean had called him fourteen times in the hour since he'd settled his brother onto the bed, thirteen stitches dotting his side, and a few pints of blood lighter. He knew, logically, that his father was probably still working on the other twelve witches (hopefully with more success than his sons), but Dean could still feel anger swelling up inside him.

His messages had gone from, _"Dad, something's gone wrong. Ivy got to Sam, and she's cursed him or something, and he needed thirteen stitches. Thirteen!"_ to, _"Dad, hurry up."_

He was going to get it for that, later.

After another half-hour, Dean settled onto his bed and just watched Sam sleep. After stitching him, Dean had (in a chick-flick fashion that he would totally deny later) re-built a little nest for him, and Sam had curled up mostly in a ball – the rear leg on his injured side sticking out a little so that he wasn't pressing it against the wound in his side.

The blanket obscured most of his body, but even from just his face sticking out, Dean found himself admitting that his little brother made for a pretty damn handsome wolf. His fur was long and soft-looking – like a cuddly toy that a small child would cart around – and though his eyes were closed, Dean could remember that the vivid hazel had remained.

The majority of his face was white, with almost husky-like tan and grey markings around his eyes, a smudge of tan across the bridge of his nose, which was a deep, dark black and twitched occasionally even in his sleep. For some reason, Dean was surprised that he had such light colouring – had he have been asked beforehand, he would have guessed that Sam's fur (God, that sounded weird) would be the same dark brown as his hair, or perhaps black.

Three hours after Dean had finished studying his brother, John stumbled back in – accompanied by the first rays of the morning sun. His was face splattered with blood and one of his jacket sleeves was split to the elbow, exposing a shallow cut running the length of his arm.

He was grinning.

"Got all twelve of the alters and grimoires without much in the way of problems – and I managed to get Ivy's, too," He explained, and then frowned at the look that Dean was giving him. "What? Did something happen?"

"I've been trying to call you," Dean snapped.

John frowned, and patted his pockets, his eyes widening in surprise.

"God, it must have fallen out in my truck, and I never even noticed. Why were you phoning me? Did something happen?" His eyes widened as his gaze fell on the end of Sam's bed and couldn't see the kids feet. "Dean, where's your brother?"

Dean hesitated for a moment, and then stepped aside.

John blinked at him, frowning, and then turned back to the bed. Dean saw the exact moment that realisation dawned, and then John was moving towards the bed – eyeing both his son's new form, and the long gash in his side; a small patch of fur missing where Dean had resorted to cutting it off in order to see the wound better.

"Ivy got to him on the west side," Dean informed him easily, moving to drop onto the bed next to his brother. "She must have thrown a curse on him before Sam could stop her – maybe taken him by surprise… although that doesn't seem likely."

Sam's eyes blinked open sleepily, and he wagged his tail for a few seconds before they drifted shut again.

John gently stroked the soft fur behind his ear for a second, and Sam's tail wagged a second time at the gesture, before lying still. Dean couldn't help but bite back a smile at the image – it had been so long since John and Sam had showed genuine affection for each other that he was almost tempted to pinch himself.

He didn't, because Dean knew that he would never dream of his brother being cursed.

"Dean," John said slowly, his finger gently scratching some dried blood that Dean must have missed off Sam's muzzle; there was genuine fear in his voice, and Dean tensed at the sound, his heart already beating faster in his chest. "Please tell me that he didn't kill her."

Dean frowned. "Yeah, after he changed, I guess. Her throat was torn out."

John swore. Loudly.

"I don't know any way to reverse this kind of curse unless the witch herself retracts it," John groaned, slamming his fist into the wall. Sam flinched a little in his sleep, but didn't wake up again. "Or if they happened to keep the counter-spell in their grimoire."

"So?" Dean snapped. "You've got all of the grimoires ready to give to Bobby. I don't see the problem."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Do you really peg Ivy Deveroux as the type to keep a counter-spell handy?"

Dean figured that it was his turn to swear, and he did so.

Loudly.

-o-

When Dean awoke the next morning, it was to a warm body and soft fur pressed against his side, and a head resting on his shoulder.

Blinking his eyes open in surprise, Dean came face-to-face with his wolf-brother, curled neatly into his side like his very own space heater… or stuffed toy. He raised an eyebrow at the fact that apparently wolf-Sam was a snuggler, whereas human Sam had been pretty good at sticking to his own side of the bed.

Across the room he heard his father chuckle a little, and raised his head a little to find him watching the two of them with a smile on his face.

"Google says that wolves often sleep in 'puppy piles'" He said by way of explanation, and then frowned at something. "No, Bobby, I wasn't talking to you? Why would I—"

For a second, Dean was completely confused, and then he noted the cell phone that his father had tucked between his shoulder and neck, as he used both hands to type away at Sam's laptop… usually it would have caused a huge drama _(it's my laptop, damn it – I saved up and bought it myself. You can't just take it without asking whenever you want!) _but wasn't really a problem today, considering that Sam no longer had fingers.

Gently extracting himself for Sam, who didn't respond other than to give a gentle 'whuff!' of protest and quickly curled back up again – his back leg still sticking out – Dean yawned and stretched, scratching the back of his head idly as he headed over to the motel kitchen to make himself some well-needed coffee.

"Alright, Bobby. Will do, thanks a lot."

John hung up with a sigh, and Dean placed a mug of coffee next to him as he slid into the opposite chair, a mug of his own cooling in his hands.

"Bobby got anything?" He asked, shifting so he could slouch in his seat and keep an eye on Sammy at the same time.

It was strange seeing the kid still sleeping – normally he was the first of them awake, working on schoolwork before their morning run. It probably had a lot to do with both the curse, and the amount of blood that he'd lost the night before, but it still made Dean unsettled.

"We've got to find a library or someplace with a scanner and a computer before he can look at the spell," His father confessed, running a hand over his face in the way that he always did when he was tired. "On the plus side, he doesn't think that it'll take him long to work out what kind of curse it is – whether it has a trigger, or it runs out over time, or…"

John didn't finish. It didn't really matter, because Dean was more than capable of finishing his father's sentence – dread already settling in the bottom of his stomach.

"Or if it's permanent."

* * *

><p><strong>End notes:<strong> Also posted to ohsam and my own personal livejournal. Reviews are love, and will keep this writer very happy - and encourage more frequent posting!


	2. Chapter 2

**[2]**

Trying to leave Sam in the motel was an experience that Dean never wanted to repeat.

At first, they simply told Sam where they were going; the seventeen-year-old whined his distress, and body-blocked the door.

Somehow, Dean and his father managed to wrestle him back and make a quick escape, slamming the door behind him; a few seconds later, Sam came sailing out of an open window. He beat them to the car.

Their next plan was to lock him in the bathroom; it all went well to start with. Dean carried him to the bathtub (receiving more than a few reprimanding bites that never once broke the skin, because for all of his growling, it was pretty much common knowledge that he was _ever_ going to willingly hurt his brother) and dropped him in it, amidst the tangle of blankets that John had left there, and John placed the water-filled ice bucket safely between the toilet and the base of the sink.

For a few minutes, they planned the way that they would keep Sam in the bathroom in the quietest voices possible. In the end, Dean threw a blanket over his younger brother's head, and they ran for it. By the time that Sam had stumbled out of the tub and into a heap on the floor, yelping a little at the sudden stop, the door was being slammed shut and a chair was being propped up against the outside.

John and Dean grinned, and slapped a quick high-five before turning and heading towards to the door.

That's when the howling started.

Dean and John winced in unison, but continued to the door – both of them confident that Sam would stop as soon as they left. As desperate as he appeared to be, he wouldn't risk them being kicked out of a motel room that came with unlimited water. The second the door swung open, the sounds of frantic scratching reached their ears and the bathroom door shook with the ferocity of Sam's anxiousness.

Dean sighed.

"He can wait in the Impala."

-o-

As it turned out, there was a small coffee shop not far from their motel that both welcome pets, and had a free-for-all computer with a scanner attached.

Unfortunately, they also had an 'all dogs must be on leashes' rule, so John detoured to the pet store (because whilst they had no intention of using them today, it would probably be useful to keep that kind of thing around). In the meantime, Dean snuck Sam in to lie underneath the desk as he got to work with the computer and scanner that had been provided. In theory, it probably would have made more sense for Dean to take Sam to the pet shop himself, but he'd taken one look at the perky (and not at all attractive) saleswoman and promptly proclaimed that he was better with technology than his father.

In general, that was usually true. Unfortunately, that tended to have a lot to do with Sam peering over his shoulder and muttering the right commands to him when John wasn't paying attention, but he figured that he could get this one on his own.

"It's the button on the left," A feminine voice informed him, and Dean stopped himself just short of dragging his knife out of his pocket purely on reflex, turning slowly to see a pretty-looking waitress smiling at him apologetically. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I just… you looked a little lost, so I thought that I'd help you out."

Dean would have believed her a lot more if her eyes hadn't been firmly trained on Sam underneath the table, even as Dean's younger brother shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, shuffling a little closer to Dean's feet, so the elder hunter's body was blocking most of him from view. Dean wasn't sure whether it was because he was so blatantly breaking the rules, or simply a reaction to the attention.

"He should have a leash on," The waitress (Mindy, her nametag stated proudly) frowned, but didn't seem to concerned as she finally turned her attention back to Dean. "Is he friendly?"

"The friendliest," Dean snorted. "Smart, too. Practically human, that one."

Mindy grinned at him, crouching to hold out a hand for him to smell. Sam glanced up at his brother, who's only response was to gently nudge him with his foot (_up to you, bro)_, before he army-crawled forwards on his stomach, allowing Mindy to tickle behind his ears gently. Dean grinned a little, consciously keeping his head turned towards the computer as Sam shot him was almost looked like a calculating look.

Seconds later, he was rolling onto his back, exposing his stomach shamelessly as his tail wagged happily. Mindy giggled, leaning over further to rub his lower belly, and Dean bit his lip to keep from laughing as the young girl finally pulled away and muttered her goodbyes, getting back to work.

Dean watched her go, and then kicked his brother gently in the side.

"Dude, and you say _I'm_ a slut!"

Sam looked almost smug.

-o-

By the time that John had been gone for over half an hour, Dean was starting to get anxious, leaning around the computer to try and see into the windows of the pet shop. He couldn't see anything, but just when he was preparing to pack up and head out, the bell over the door rang and his father stepped inside, a slight frown on his face and three large bags in his hands.

"What the hell, Dad?" Dean grinned, eyeing the bags. "Did you buy the whole damn store, or what?"

"I, uh," John stumbled uncharacteristically, scratching uncomfortably at the back of his neck. "The saleswoman got a little carried away and I was paying for it before I even second-thought it… probably not a bad way of doing business, actually."

Sam snorted loudly I what Dean recognised as mirth, and both Dean and John grinned a little at that, glancing down at the youngest Winchester, spread out so that his injured side was angled away from Dean's idly swinging foot, still snorting softly to himself, seemingly very happy with the events currently taking place.

"That's creepy," Dean informed his brother. "You are entirely too well-adjusted for a seventeen-year-old kid turned wolf. Seriously. I think we need to get you some help."

Sam shot him a baleful glare, his laughter finally dying a little, and John snickered as he turned back to the computer.

"You done?"

"You bet I am," Dean grinned, slipping off the stool, and heading towards the door. "Come on, Sammy. Last one to the car has to—_Shit!_ Hey! That's not fair! I only have two legs!"

-o-

Bobby phoned them back later that evening, and John went outside to take the call. Although Dean spent the entire time pacing the length of the room as Sam paced between the beds, it didn't actually take that long for his father to return.

His shaking hands told him that it was bad news, long before the words cleared his mouth.

"Dad?" Dean prompted, eyeing his little brother carefully as Sam's ears pricked up, his eyes trained on his father as the elder man headed towards the table. "What did Bobby have to say?"

"He managed to translate the curse." John frowned, shrugging one shoulder as his hands rolled the phone over and over. "He had a few interesting things to say… apparently Sam's not stuck like this."

Dean felt his heart fill with relief, only to fall again when John continued.

"The curse is to turn someone into a _shapeshifter_. It was only keeping the kids as puppies as they weren't strong enough to change back. Apparently it's painful, but possible."

There was a pregnant pause, neither of the brothers knowing quite how to react to that. Finally, Dean realised that there was a more pressing question.

"But, dad, the curse…?"

John turned his back to his sons, gripping the table tightly with both hands, the muscles in his arms corded, shoulders hunched.

"Bobby couldn't find a way to reverse it, Dean."

For a long moment, no one spoke. No one moved. Dean wondered if any of them were even breathing.

And then Sam slumped to the floor with a loud thud and a small whimper, and Dean sank down next to him, tucking an arm around his little brother and burying his fingers in the thick fur on his flank.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," He whispered, "I'm so, so sorry."

Sam just curled up tighter.

-o-

None of them spoke much until dinner, when Dean found himself quickly engrossed in a heated discussion (which he outright refused to count as an 'argument') with his father.

"Hamburgers are made with _beef_, and the internet says that beef's bad for their digestive system," John argued defensively. "But the pizza just has chicken and pepper on it!"

"God, dad," Dean replied loudly. "He's not a real wolf, or husky, or whatever the hell you were reading about! He's a _person_, and although Sam will never admit it, he likes burgers way more than pizza."

"We're talking about his health!" John snapped back, and Dean opened his mouth to reply, only to be cut short when Sam started making the a wheezing-hacking sound.

"God, Sammy," Dean frowned, crossing the room quickly to kneel on the floor by his bed, running his hand over his little brother's furry head. "What's wrong? Sam? …Sam, are you laughing?"

The wolf nodded, and Dean could feel laughter bubbling in his own chest at the strange sound.

John broke first – a very undignified snort forcing its way free, and then all three of them were laughing (perhaps a little hysterically if they were honest), and all Dean could think was: _Sam's been turned into a wolf – a shapeshifter; one of many things that they'd been taught to hunt and kill over the last seventeen years, and somehow it was the happiest that they'd been in years._

He should have known that things wouldn't stay that way.

In their life, laughter was – more often than not – the prelude to disaster or tears.

Or both.

-o-

After dinner than night, John announced that he wanted Sam to try and change back as soon as he could.

"Are you crazy?" Dean questioned instantly, feeling the tension from the pre-dinner argument (because he could no longer deny that it had, in fact, been an argument – as trivial as it had been) rise back up. It was strange really – usually Dean and his father got on exceptionally well. It just figured that Sam would be the reason that they fought… even if he was doing so completely unintentionally. "He needed thirteen stitches _yesterday_, and Bobby said that the change would be painful! We don't know what kind of repercussions doing something like that could cause."

"Your brother can't stay a wolf forever, Dean," John frowned. "It'll be better if he gets it over with sooner rather than later – before he gets used to this whole 'being a wolf' idea."

Dean blinked in confusion; Sam made a sort of snarling noise that Dean took for anger or outrage.

"What are you _talking _about? The curse has _permanently_ turned him into a shifter – he has reason to get used to being a wolf! Besides, surely the change can wait until after he's recovered? He needs another night of decent sleep to prepare for this, at least."

"Now, you listen to me. The _curse_ says that he can change _at will_ – that means that after he turns human, I expect him not to change again. Not ever." John said firmly, his eyes steadily holding Sam's. "Like I said, the sooner that he changes back, the better."

The thick, hot anger in Dean's gut had him stumbling for words for a long, painful moment where Sam's eyes turned to him – something in them was begging his big brother to defend him. Dean had spent his whole life doing just that. He wasn't going to stop now.

"No, Dad," Dean said coldly, his voice low and calm. Almost sinister. "How about you listen to me, for once? I've spent the last seventeen years playing your good little soldier, and I have never _once_ complained about it, but I've also spent the those years carrying out what you once told me was my, 'most important job'. Protecting Sammy. So if you think, for a second, that I'm going to let you do this to him? You're sorely mistaken."

It was clear for all to see that John had not expected that. His eyes had widened in surprise, but his fists were clenched with a white-knuckled grip at his sides, as if he was just barely restraining himself from punching his eldest son.

Dean stood his ground.

"Here's what's going to happen," His father ground out. "I'm going to go to the bar, and whilst I'm gone, you're going to get your shit together, Dean. By the time that I come back, I expect you to have re-evaluated your options and gone _back_ to being that good little soldier. Understood? Now, Sam," Sam looked up, slinking forward with his head down as his ears flat, tail tucked so firmly between his legs that it was touching his belly as he moved to stand in front of his father, stomach low to the floor. "I want you to listen to me very clearly. Tomorrow, you are going to shift. You are not going to shift back. That's final."

Sam turned his head away slightly, enabling Dean to see his face for the first time since the argument had begun. The sight of his despondent eyes was like a sucker punch, because he realised for the first time just how miserable fighting with their father made him, and Dean was forced to wonder how many times Sam's mop of unruly hair had hidden that very same look from him.

He'd spent the last three years thinking that Sam got some form of satisfaction from fighting with their father, blaming the constant fights on his brother and his 'moods'. Now he was realising that his father was just as much to blame. When was the last time that his father had told Sam that he'd done well at something? That he was proud of him, or loved him?

Dean couldn't remember.

"C'mere, Sammy," He said gently, and his father's back stiffened in the doorway. Dean was more than aware that he'd just broken another rule – after an argument like that, 'John's boys' were supposed to stand and wait in silence until their father had left.

Dean couldn't bring himself to care, because as he knelt next to his brother and wrapped his arms around him, he realised for the first time that Sam was trembling.

"Dean," John hissed warningly, slamming the door behind him when his eldest son didn't reply.

Sam rested against him, trembling and half in Dean's lap as his older brother held him. At the ages of seventeen and twenty-one, the boys didn't hug anymore; after feeling how quickly such a small gesture calmed Sam, Dean found himself wondering why the hell not.

The answer, of course, was their father and his 'Dean, no coddling your brother' rules.

-o-

Dean spent a long hour after the argument contemplating their lives.

Since the age of four, Dean had never spent longer than a few months in one place. Never long enough to make real friends, have a stable girlfriend, or even join a sports team and see it all the way through. They'd never had a pet – not even a goldfish; they'd never gone to a school dance, or even to a house party.

Dean wondered if Sam had ever even felt safe.

But more than that was the fact that, throughout the argument, his father had never once taken into account Sam's feelings on the matter. Did Sam want to be cursed into a shifter? No, probably not, but Dean knew his little brother, and he knew that Sam would want to make the best out of the situation.

Who knew what having a wolf on the team would do for their little hunting business.

"Sam," Dean whispered to his brother, breaking the silence for the first time in an hour. The two of them were still sitting on the floor, Dean leaning against the foot of the bed and Sam sprawled in his lap with his head resting on his big brother's thigh. "I don't think I can do this anymore. I need... space, from dad. A break or something. I think I need to leave."

Sam whimpered, his ears lying flat against his head as his head swivelled around to face Dean.

"I want you to come with me," Dean reassured him, recognising the look on his face almost instantly. "We'll go to Pastor Jim's… or Bobby's, since he's closer, and can probably help a little more than Jim."

Sam didn't respond in any recognisable way, just stood and walked away, and for an awful second Dean thought that Sam wanted to stay. That he'd rather live with John, screaming and fighting every two seconds and being taught to hate the person that he now was, than leave with Dean.

And then Sam reappeared, awkwardly dragging two half unpacked duffel bags by his teeth.

He was trembling again, but his tail was wagging.


	3. Chapter 3

**[3]**

The drive to Bobby's should have taken nine hours.

Dean made it in six and a half, including a bathroom break along the way which he had used to phone Bobby, and the older man didn't seem at all surprised to see the two youngest Winchesters appearing in his yard so early, stood leaning casually against the doorjamb with his hands wrapped around what Dean presumed to be a cup of coffee.

The scrap yard itself hadn't changed much since the last time Dean had visited it, other than the fact that it suddenly felt like _home_. The same two rusted Chevelle's (one of which was missing half of the front, and the other one with a roof practically touching the floor) sat on either side of the end of the drive, opening up into a large space where the house itself sat.

Dean could remember many an evening growing up where Sam and himself had plonked themselves on that caved-in roof and watched the stars, pretending that the morning wouldn't bring another day where demons and shapeshifters lurked in the shadows, and salt-lines and runes and an in-trunk arsenal weren't the only things standing between themselves and death.

It was one of few places that Dean had ever felt truly safe.

Next to him, Sammy whuffed happily, dragging himself into a sitting position in the passenger seat to peer out of the window and wagging his tail at the sight of their old friend, glancing over at his brother as his tongue lolled out of his mouth.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean muttered, smiling a little despite himself. "I missed him, too."

He parked the Impala in her usual spot, and reached over the back of the seat to grab their duffels (which he'd avoided putting in the trunk simply because John's purchases from the previous day were currently taking up room there) before climbing out, pausing at the passenger seat door to release Sam. The younger boy bounded out of the car and up the porch steps, nearly knocking Bobby over when he leapt up to put his forepaws on Bobby's chest in his excitement.

"Easy, Sam," Bobby grinned as his coffee splashed over the sides of his mug, releasing it with one hand to scratch behind Sam's ears. On his hind legs, Sam was nearly the same height as the older hunter, and he nuzzled his nose into Bobby's neck once before dropping back down to the floor – tail wagging behind him with such ferocity that it was shaking his entire rear end.

Never as touchy-feeling as his brother, Dean settled for clamping a hand on Bobby's shoulder as he passed.

"Thanks for this, Bobby." He muttered, watching the way that Sam eagerly trotted into the kitchen and spent a few moments studying a kitchen chair, circling it twice, before finally clambering on it in a manner that could only be described as 'clumsily', seemingly please with himself as he placed a paw on the table for balance.

"Your daddy called," Bobby informed them, shutting the door and following them inside. "He's goin' ape-shit back there. I hope you realise just what you boys have got yourselves into."

"Believe me," Dean said evenly. "We do. We're just sorry to drag you into this, but without stopping to hustle somewhere, we're pretty low on the funds front, and we didn't really want to risk Dad catching up to us along the way."

"Forget it, boy. The two of you are always welcome here, you know that. Besides, I promised your daddy that if he so much as set foot in South Dakota, I'd shoot his ass full of buckshot." Bobby said gruffly, cuffing Dean across the back of his head in a gentle manner that belied his gruff tone.

"I bet he loved that," Dean grinned, and then noted the way that Sam was listing slightly in his seat, righting his self every second that he leant a little too far. Dean grinned a little at the semi-familiar sight, recognising his brother's stubborn attitude towards falling asleep, and headed over, scratching his brother's ears fondly. "Come on, Fido, time for bed."

"Fido?" Bobby laughed. "Very original, Dean."

-o-

Dean awoke gradually.

Once again, there was a soft warmth pressed against his side and a head resting on his shoulder, leaving his arm free to move around and gently stroke Sam's flank as he blinked his eyes open. Sam shifted a little, settling further into Dean's side, and Dean found himself smiling despite himself.

"You're such a princess," He muttered affectionately, ruffling his little brother's ears. Sam mock-growled in response to the comment, burying his cold, wet nose into Dean's neck a few seconds later.

Giving an embarrassingly girly shriek, Dean struggled out of the bed on the off chance that his brother chose to repeat the action and stood there for a few moments in shock, before collecting himself enough to glare at his brother.

"That was a low blow, dude," He warned. "Believe me when I say that there's gonna be serious consequences in your future."

Sam's response was a doggy grin and a seriously wagging tail.

"Yeah, yeah. We'll see if you're that cocky when I put Nair in your shampoo again!"

It was the ultimate threat, and Sam growled darkly at him for a few moments (which Dean spent picturing a hairless wolf-Sam with a wide grin on his face) before turning and flouncing (God, _flouncing?_ What the hell was Dean thinking these days? Sam was turning him into a girl!) out of the room.

Rolling his eyes, Dean headed for the bathroom.

Unfortunately, he wasn't a wolf, and as such, he still needed to shower and brush his teeth. _God_, sometimes being a human sucked.

"Tell Bobby to make me coffee!" Dean shouted after his brother, locking the door behind him, shaking his head and grinning when Sam howled in what appeared to be despair at his elder brother's lack of logic – exactly what he had been aiming for.

When given the opportunity, Dean was usually one of those people who liked to savour their time in the shower – to enjoy the sensation of hot water easing his hunter-tense muscles, and giving him the perfect opportunity to forget all about the stress of the job, and just relax for a little while.

Today, his big brother instincts were working overtime, and he was in and out of the shower in record time, dressing hurriedly in what he quickly realised to be his last set of clean clothes. For a long moment he contemplated using Bobby's washer to do the laundry, before noting that – if he was honest – he was better off just making a quick trip to the mall. He wasn't sure that he had a single salvageable shirt left, and certainly none with which he had the patience to try.

Grumbling a little to himself (because _shopping_, seriously?), Dean headed for the kitchen, grinning a little at the sight that greeted him. Bobby had made bacon and pancakes, which he'd proceeded to cut up and place in a large bowl for Sam; the wolf himself had wriggled back onto the same chair as last night, somehow managing to balance happily despite having to co-ordinate four legs and a tail, and was happily munching away.

It was terrifying, sometimes, how quickly Sam could adjust to anything and everything thrown his way.

"Morning," Bobby said gruffly, nodding to his microwave (which had seriously seen better days). "Your pancakes are in there, but they're probably still pretty warm."

He didn't comment on Dean's unusually quick shower, and Dean once more felt a rush of appreciation for their old friend. Sam chose that moment to look up from his meal, and offered Dean the equivalent of a doggy grin, tail thumping happily off the back of the chair. Dean had seventeen years experience of dealing with Sammy and his sappy appreciation.

He still smiled.

"Thanks," He told Bobby, scratching affectionately behind Sam's ears before grabbing his breakfast and slipping into the nearest seat, noticing the manila folder on the table before the elder hunter for the first time. "What's that?"

"Case studies," Bobby grunted, pushing the folder towards Dean. "Of people who've been cursed in a similar fashion toSam."

Dean frowned.

"Hang on a minute," He said anxiously, tapping the folder. "If there's other witches out there using the same spell, one of them must have a counter spell! If we can just track one of them down—"

"Dean," Bobby interjected as Sam whined anxiously. "I said cases _like_ Sam's. None of the spells are the same, just similar enough to give us a little more information about what effects this curse is likely to have on him."

Dean sighed in disappointment, his momentary flame of hope extinguished as he sagged back into his seat. Sam whined again, licking his big brother's hand, and Dean was struck again by love for his little brother. Here he was, cursed to be a shapeshifter until the day that he died, and he was comforting _Dean_.

Stupid little bitch.

"That's gross," Dean muttered, faux-angry, and wiped his hand on his jeans dramatically, before faltering and adding, "I was going to call you bitch, but that seems strangely inappropriate now."

Sam cocked his head, as if it was hard to understand what Dean was saying, before shaking his head in a furiously human action – clearly, Sam wasn't going to allow his childhood name to be revoked.

Dean was a little relieved at that.

-o-

"Sam wants to try to change back later today," Bobby informed Dean, three days later.

After two days of sticking around the house and relaxing, Dean had felt cabin-fever creeping up on him and had headed outside to do a little work on his beloved Impala, which was why Bobby's statement was met with a loud _'Clang!'_ when Dean's head connected with the car's underside.

"Ouch!" The younger hunter snapped, wriggling out from underneath the car. "Jesus, Bobby, give a guy a little warning next time!"

Bobby raised an eyebrow.

"You spent last night announcing loudly that you were _Batman_ whenever you hit the target on the tree outback," Bobby said stiffly, although Dean didn't miss the curve of humour on his lips. "I figured that there was no way you'd let an old codger like me sneak up on you."

Dean flailed for a response, and came up short.

"…Fair point." He acknowledged, and then, "What was it you said about Sam? I didn't hear."

"You're a pretty crappy Batman," Bobby groaned with a sigh. "I said that he wants to try to change back later today."

Dean's amusement faded.

"He told you this?" He asked tersely, standing with a grace that screamed _'predator.'_

"Uh, not in so many ways," Bobby replied, suddenly coming to the conclusion that he'd crossed some sort of line, and if there was one thing that you did not want to do around Dean, it was to overstep your bounds in relation to Sam. "I mentioned the transformation, and he poked today's date on the calendar repeatedly with his nose, until I figured out what he wanted."

Dean frowned, glaring at the elder hunter for a few seconds.

"Sam?" He called eventually, anger in his voice even as he kept his eyes expectantly on the door. Sam arrived a few moments later, apparently without a care in the world, and with his tongue lolling happily.

"Woof," He announced, dropping to sit next to Dean's feet and look at him expectantly. When Dean didn't say anything, Sam cocked his head to the side and stared at his brother for a few moments before he finally seemed to work it out, his eyes flickering to Bobby and his body language changing in an instant – going from relaxed to tense, ears back and head drooping a little.

"Woof." He corrected, much more meekly this time.

Dean felt his heart break a little as he recognised that this had been Sam's typical reaction to their father, before the arguments, and this time (since there was no way that he could shout back and, for all intent and purposes, _defend_himself) Sam wasn't even going to try. He was just going to give in.

After a few seconds of internal debate, Dean finally turned to Bobby with a sigh.

"How does this work?"

-o-

Bobby insisted that, for Sam's first change, they took every available precaution. Dean nodded eagerly, recognising that even if the older man hadn't suggested it, he would've, and at least this way his baby brother was glaring at Bobby rather than himself.

Blankets and pillows were bundled on the floor to make the softest surface possible, and pain killers and smelling salts (along with a military-sized medical kit) were bundled onto the coffee table, which had been pulled well out of the way.

The lights had been dimmed and the blinds pulled shut to block any light from outside that might otherwise have crept in, just in case Sam had a headache when he'd finished shifting, and Bobby had insisted that they keep some of Sam's clothes on hand.

Dean hadn't even thought of that one.

The eldest of the three hunters had even gone as far as to look up protective charms and had drawn what he called a 'healing circle' onto the floor surrounding the nest of blankets after a brief phone conversation.

He hadn't shared with Dean any information about his source, but considering Dean's current hatred for witches, that was hardly surprising.

"You sure that you're up for this?" Dean asked his brother worriedly, shifting anxiously from foot-to-foot on the perimeter of the circle. "Because we don't mind you waiting until you're all healed up, dude. I mean, what if you pop your stitches?"

Sam shot him a baleful look that clearly said, _"well, it wouldn't be the first time, Dean. Stop being such an overprotective ass."_ Or something along those lines, anyway.

"Right," Bobby said with a shake of his head. "Since we've got that cleared up, that's everything. So, just… when you're ready, Sam."

The wolf took a deep breath, and nodded, an intense look of concentration crossing his face (which Dean hadn't even known was possible, but whatever). For a few seconds, nothing happened, and then Dean heard the unmistakable snap of bones breaking, and Sam let out a slightly surprised howl of pain.

Dean was moving before he even registered it, and only Bobby's quick reflexes stopped him from stepping into the circle.

"You can't risk restraining him and messing with the shift," Bobby informed him in a calm, even voice that completely masked the worry that Dean could see in his eyes. "For now, you're better off staying out here."

Reluctantly, Dean nodded, stepping back to resume his position at the elder hunter's side – unable to do anything but watch as his little brother forced his own bones to break and re-align; whimpering in pain, and panting for air.

It was a few moments before Dean could get past the horrific sight of bones moving underneath skin and really _see_ the transformation.

Already Sam's fur was receding and his muzzle was retracting back into his face; his tail was shortening and gradually slipping back into his spine, and his arms and legs were reforming to support his new shape. Sweat glistened on newly-revealed skin, and the hair on top of his head lengthened as his ribs gradually snapped in and widened to accustom his human chest.

It was utterly horrific, and somehow, Dean could still see the beauty in it. The way that science and magic combined to make something entirely impossible a reality.

"He has to practice," Bobby muttered to him. "It'll be less painful and a lot faster, if he does. The more he can bring himself to do it, the better. My sources tell me that, eventually, the shift should be almost seamless – with only a small, second-long burst of pain."

Dean nodded, unable to take his eyes off his brother as he entered the final stages of the shift. Nearly twenty minutes after he'd set out to shift from a wolf, a very human Sam collapsed onto his side on the tangle of blankets.

"Sammy," Dean breathed, giving no thoughts to the circle as he rushed forwards, rolling his younger brother onto his back.

For a long moment, he thought that the teenager was unconscious, and then groggy hazel eyes blinked open to meet his, and Sam made a visible effort to control the heaving of his chest – offering Dean a weak grin.

"That… sucked," he panted, his eyes falling shut again.

"I bet it did, Kiddo," Dean grinned, pushing his brother's bangs away from his face and leaning back to study him. Thankfully, Bobby had chosen Dean's distraction as a prime opportunity to toss one of the blankets over Sam's lower half, so Dean didn't have to worry about his little brother's pride.

"Looks like you pulled a few stitches," He mused aloud, wiping the blood away from Sam's side when Bobby handed him a wash-cloth. "Nothing major, though. How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit… by a semi," Sam groaned, his voice hoarse. "Twice."

Dean winced a little at the vivid description. "Nice. Anything in particular bothering you?"

"Head hurts," Sam offered, his voice taking on a slightly slurred quality. "And my side stings… and I ache. _Everything_aches."

Dean nodded, grabbing the bottle of aspirin and gratefully accepting the bottle of water that Bobby offered him.

"Here," He offered, using one hand to prop his brother up and the other to assist him in taking the pills. "That help?"

"Yeah," Sam said with a nod, rolling onto his side and curling up a little when Dean lay him flat again. "Pretty tired, though… M'just gonna rest here for a little while, okay?"

"Wouldn't the sofa be more comfortable?" Dean frowned, shifting restlessly and feeling beyond useless.

"Nah," Sam slurred quietly, and Dean knew that even if his brother had said yes, it would have been hell to move him when he was this tired. "Floor's good… s'all good."

Despite everything, Dean couldn't help but smile at that.

"Yeah, Sammy. It's all good."

-o-

Sam slept solidly for the entire night, and well into the following day.

"Is this normal?" Dean found himself demanding of Bobby. "Sam never sleeps this well!"

Unfortunately, it was the truth. Sam had been an early riser since he was a kid, and their lifestyle meant that getting to bed before midnight was unusual – John had assured Dean growing up that, eventually, Sammy's body would regulate itself and he'd start getting the standardised eight hours by sleeping past dawn.

Sam was now seventeen, and it was still a challenge to get him to sleep past eight in the morning.

"There ain't much about this whole situation that _is_ normal, boy," Bobby responded with an eye roll. "But for the record, yes, I figure that this probably is normal. He broke and re-aligned every single bone in his body, completely changed his muscle figuration… I'd bet even the very pigments of his skin changed. That's got to wear a kid out."

"Just a little," A new voice muttered from the doorway, and Dean spun around to find a very sleepy-looking Sammy stood wavering in the doorway, holding onto the doorframe as he swayed lightly. He was still shirtless, looking sleep-rumpled and warm, but had apparently spared the time to pull on the sweatpants that Bobby had left next to his nest.

"Sammy! You should have stayed in bed… or, uh, on the floor, and called for us!" Dean scolded lightly, already moving from his seat at the table to guide his younger brother to his usual seat.

"Was looking forward to walking on two legs…" Sam admitted, and then continued with a slight frown, "'S harder than I remembered."

Dean snickered lightly at the confusion on the young boy's face.

"Yeah, well, you're practically sleepwalking," He teased. "Walking's a lot easier when you're actually _awake_ to do it - which is exactly why you should have stayed in bed."

"Shut up," Sam grumbled, and then, "Any chance of breakfast?"

"It's two in the afternoon," Bobby snorted, continuing quickly when he saw the slightly crestfallen look on the youngest Winchester's face. "…But I guess that there's always time for breakfast."

He rose from the table, squeezing Sam's shoulder as he passed him, and Dean settled into his usual seat, next to his baby brother.

"How're you feeling?" He asked after a long pause, studying the kid. His skin was paler than normal, and there was dark smudges under his eyes that matched the slightly hooded look of his eyelids. Clearly he was exhausted, but there didn't seem to be any physical damage.

"Sore," Sam answered with a snort, and then. "Everything's different… weird."

"Weird how?" Dean demanded quietly. Sam didn't answer for a long moment, fiddling with the edge of his placemat. "Sammy?"

"It's just… everything's louder, even when I'm human again. My sense of smell has improved, and that's a little overwhelming, if I'm honest. Colours are different as a wolf, too… not black and white, just duller – and I can see better in the dark than before."

Dean blinked a little stupidly at his little brother's admittance, mulling it over.

"It's probably par for the course," Bobby interrupted gruffly, plopping a plate of eggs and bacon in front of the youngest Winchester. "I'll do some more asking around later, find out if there's any other side effects that we can expect. In the meantime, there's a Corvette sitting in my garage that's getting picked up later today, so I'll see you boys later."

The two Winchester's watched their uncle-figure leave in silence, and it wasn't until he was gone that Dean leant back in his seat, observing his little brother properly.

"How are you holding up? And before you go all smartass on me, I don't mean physically."

Sam hesitated, pushing some eggs around his plate a little.

"Alright, I guess. I mean, it's my own goddamn fault. Not only did I let the witch get the drop on me, I then ruined any chance I had of being fixed by tearing her throat out… which was disgusting, by the way." Sam shuddered, shaking his head a little. "Besides, once I've got a little better control, it could be a good thing, right? You could dress me up as a sniffer dog and I can track all of the 'big, bad and uglies' down."

Dean nodded a little.

"That's true," He acknowledged. "And now I'm going to ask you again: how do you feel, Sam? Really?"

"What do you want to hear, Dean?" Sam demanded, exploding at his brother in a rather uncharacteristic manner. "It sucks, alright? Not only am I now _officially_ the freak of the family, forcing you to leave Dad behind, but I'm a murderer, too!"

Sam slumped back into his seat almost as soon as his outburst was finished, as if the energy had been zapped out of him.

"Sammy," Dean muttered quietly, leaning over the table to catch his baby brother's chin in his hand and raise his head – forcing their eyes to meet. "I know that you wouldn't have killed her if you had a choice, dude. Everyone knows that! And as for Dad, well… that was my choice, Sam. You didn't force me to make it. God knows that I've probably been following his orders for far too long. Sooner or later I was going to need some time to myself."

"I just made it sooner," Sam muttered miserably, completely abandoning his breakfast with a sigh.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Sam," Dean sighed. "Yeah, this whole situation probably _did_ bring it on sooner – but that doesn't change that fact that it _was_ going to happen eventually. Do you understand that?"

Sam nodded, glancing at the door.

"Yeah, Dean. Look… I'm just gonna go back to bed for a while. Why don't you go and see if Bobby needs any help with the Corvette?"

Dean blinked dumbly as Sam made what could only be described as his _escape_, not glancing back a single time as he headed back to the longue. For a few moments, Dean stared dumbly after him, and when he finally got his wits together enough to poke his head around the living room door frame, Sam had already curled himself back into the nest of blankets, his breathing even.

"It's not your fault, Sammy," Dean whispered to his sleeping brother. "God, it was never your fault."


	4. Chapter 4

**[4]**

In their lives, peace never lasted.

The two of them lazed around Bobby's house for a week before one of them broke it, but it was broken nonetheless.

"You're going to have to talk to dad eventually," Sam informed his older brother conversationally as he dropped onto the sofa next to him. "You can't ignore him forever."

"Watch me," Dean scoffed absently. Sam didn't answer, just stared at him for a long moment, and Dean finally relented with a sigh. "Alright, so I can't ignore him forever, but I really don't want to talk to the guy, Sammy."

"I hardly ever want to talk to him," Sam responded with a small grin and a shrug of his shoulders. "Doesn't make ignoring him any more right. It doesn't matter what he said, he's still our father."

"You have an entirely too healthy outlook on life, Sammy," Dean groaned, throwing a pillow at his brother's head. "It's seriously unnatural."

Sam snorted, and dropped Dean's cell phone into his lap before heading outside. For a long moment, Dean just watched him go, and then he sighed and flipped it open, dialling his father's number from memory.

_"Dean?"_ His father's voice hesitantly. "_That you, son?"_

"Yeah," Dean answered. "It's me. We need to talk."

_"I know,"_ John acknowledged. _"And I'm sorry. For what I said about Sammy – I was just trying to protect him."_

Dean blinked in surprise, already feeling distinctly angrier than he had seconds beforehand.

"From what?" He snapped. "Because what you wanted him to do? That was going to hurt him, dad. Shifting when he was already so tired and in pain? _That_ was what was going to hurt him, not relaxing for a few days."

_"I know that, Dean!"_ John snapped. _"But what if your brother continues to shift, and a hunter catches wind of it? Do you think that they're going to stop and analyse the family history – work out that Sam was cursed and is actually a hunter, or are they going to stick a silver bullet in his heart and be done with it?"_

"We could deal with it," Dean said after a long pause. "This is who he is now, dad. We have to accept that… _you_have to accept that."

_"No, I don't."_ John said stiffly. _"Your brother is safer if he doesn't shift, Dean. You know that he is. The kind of magic that something like that requires? Well, there's things that target it, and hunters are going to target _him_. If he has the chance to continue as normal – if he can control these shifts? Then he should."_

There was another, longer, pause as Dean desperately thought through his father's argument. Was he right? Dean couldn't decide, his brain was too scrambled.

_"I love your brother, Ace,"_ His father continued, voice a lot softer than Dean remembered hearing for a long time._"I just want what's best for him. I don't want to see him hurt... and I can't see him killed. Not over something like this."_

"So what?" Dean finally managed. "Now that Sam's shifted back we just pretend that it never happened? This is a _curse_ Dad, there has to be some kind of clause to stop him from just _ignoring_ it."

_"Perhaps there is," _John sighed. "_And if there is, then we'll deal with it, but I doubt that there will be. The curse that Ivy used was designed for children. They were too weak to shift back into their human shapes, so she had no reason to include a trigger for a second shift – it's entirely possible, and likely, that she never planned for anything like this. The curse could have just been a panicked reflex – she threw it at her attacker simply because she couldn't think of anything else to do."_

Dean hated to admit it, but his father was making a lot of sense.

"Tell him that I'll do it," Sam's voice said evenly, drifting across the lounge from the doorway. Dean startled, having been completely unaware of his younger brother's presence. "Tell him I won't shift again. That I'll stop completely – go cold turkey, or whatever."

"Sam-" Dean tried to reason, taking the phone from his ear and pressing it to his chest as he addressed his brother. Sam was having none of it, shaking his head emphatically.

"No, Dean," He interrupted, a bright determination in his eyes that directly contrasted the tight set of his jaw. "Dad's right – if another hunter hears about this, they could come after me. And if they did? It wouldn't just be me in danger. I can't do that. Not to you, or Dad, or Bobby, or even Pastor Jim, for goodness sakes. I won't."

"We can't pretend this never happened," Dean shot back, unsure whether he was currently angrier at his father or brother. "This is a _part_ of you, now!"

"Yeah, well, I don't want it to be." Sam snapped back, and then nodded at the phone. "Tell him to meet us here. Three conditions: I won't shift, you won't bitch, Dad won't yell. Problem solved."

By the time that the reasons behind Sam's sudden mood change had dawned on Dean, he'd already told their father to come to Bobby's. It was too late to tell him not to come, but Dean couldn't shift the feeling that he'd just done something wrong – because he was suddenly struck with the realisation that Sam hadn't said that he'd stop shifting because _he_ didn't want to.

It was because his father didn't want him to – perhaps he even thought that Dean didn't - and when it came down to it, Sam would do anything for his father.

He'd do even more for his brother.

-o-

Dean didn't see Sam at all throughout the rest of the day. In fact, by the time that Dean had finished talking to his father and then had his little epiphany, Sam seemed to have disappeared completely. Dean wasn't sure that it was a coincidence.

He had searched the entire house, and finally stumbled across Bobby – who was back out in the garage, this time with an old Ford pickup that had definitely seen better days. The older hunter dutifully informed him that Sam had gone for a run up to the lake, and that he'd be back in time for dinner.

The elder of the two Winchesters spent a long moment debating following his brother to the lake and trying to talk some sense into him, but finally decided that Sam could probably use a little time to himself after everything he'd been through lately. Being cursed by a witch, turning from a guy into a wolf, being stabbed in the side, killing aforementioned witch, learning that the aforementioned curse is permanent, and then shapeshifting from a wolf to man in only a few weeks had to be pretty mind-blowing.

It also gave Dean a little time to prepare for the events of the next day. His father had admitted to staying just outside of the state line (making Dean grin a little at the realisation that their father had taken Bobby's threat seriously), and had been more than prepared to leave right away so that they could get everything 'over and done with'.

Dean had insisted that he waited until the following day before driving over – to give both himself and Sam time to prepare themselves; Bobby, for his part, had received the news of John's imminent arrival with a brief nod, but Dean hadn't missed the loaded shotgun that had suddenly appeared next to the front door.

Clearly Dean wasn't the only one who had learnt not to expect miracles from his father.

Truthfully, Dean had admitted that to himself a long time ago – when years of hoping that their father might remember _one_ birthday or Christmas had given way to the bitter revelation that it was never going to happen. The eldest of the two Winchesters knew that he wouldn't even have the Impala if it weren't for Sam, and his instances that Dean's eighteenth birthday deserved _some_ kind of decent recognition.

Somewhere along the line, Dean's hero-worship of his father had faded into the wordless acceptance of orders from a soldier to his drill sergeant, and Dean had spent the remaining years denying it to anyone who noticed… including himself. He wasn't sure that he could ever really forgive his father for that.

Finally, Sam slipped into the kitchen and wordlessly set about setting up their places. No-one called him out on his sudden trip to the lake, or his abrupt entry, and the three of them fell into something that had almost become established as routine.

"This is weird," Sam finally blurted, blushing when both Bobby and Dean shot him confused and incredulous looks. "Um, having a dinner routine, I mean."

Bobby snorted.

"Kid, after everything that's happened to you recently, you really think that this is the weirdest part?" There was something akin to sadness in his voice, and Dean didn't dare try and muddle out why.

"It's kind of cool, is all." Sam said with a shrug, nodding to the table. "Feels like a family... I just wish that dad was here to enjoy it with us."

Dean nodded, but couldn't help but ask quietly, "Would we really be enjoying it if dad was here?"

The silence that greeted his comment said everything.

-o-

John appeared with the roar of an engine and the squeal of brakes on the gravel surrounding Bobby's house.

Dean had been willing himself all day to work up _some_ kind of excitement at seeing his father – the man who, up until recently, he had spent his life idolising – but all that he felt upon seeing the big, black truck pull into the space next to the Impala was trepidation. Sam, despite his earlier insistences that telling their father to come over was the right thing to do, had hardly spoken a word all day, and Dean hadn't failed to notice his shaking hands and paler-than-usual complexion.

As hard as his baby brother was trying to hide it, he was beyond nervous about what his father might say to him – or ask him to do.

"He's not gonna get away with anything, Sammy," Dean assured him as Sam arrived in the kitchen, passing Bobby as the elder hunter headed out to let John into the house. Dean had no doubts that the elder hunter would be exchanging a few stern words with their father before allowing him inside.

"I know." Sam said with a smile, but he didn't look any less worried, and he couldn't keep his eyes from flittering nervously to the doorway. The message was clear; he trusted Dean, he just didn't trust his father.

Dean wished again that he'd never invited his father – or that he'd at least ordered a little longer for Sam to prepare, but the sound of boots on wooden floors proved that it was too late, and all he could do was straighten his shoulders and lock eyes with his father as the elder man stepped into the room – the very picture perfect definition of defiance.

John frowned at his older son's stance, but wisely chose not to comment.

"Boys," He greeted stiffly, shifting a little awkwardly on his feet, before turning his gaze to Sam. "Sam – you're looking better."

"I am," Sam shrugged. "The stitches itch a little, but, y'know."

Unfortunately, they all did.

"Hmm," John agreed with a nod. "Have you, uh… changed?"

Dean stiffened, but Sam seemed to straighten under the challenge – his eyes going harder than Dean had seen them in a long time.

"Not since I changed back for the first time, last week." He replied confidently, the angle of his jaw just daring their father to question him a little further. There was an argument brewing, and Dean certainly wasn't in the mood to deal with it.

"The kid's been a trooper," Bobby interrupted gruffly, accusation in his voice even as he stopped the impending fight. Dean found himself wondering if the older hunter was simply trying to redirect their father's attentions. "From what I hear the urge to shift is a pretty damn strong one."

"He'll get used to it," John answered unapologetically, and Dean bristled, relaxing a little only when Sam gently tapped his wrist and locked their eyes, the message clear. '_It's alright. We knew this was coming._' "Now, we've got a lot to discuss. Shall we sit?"

It was typical. Their father had been back in their lives for all of five minutes and he was already assuming control. Dean wondered whether it was a pathological need - something that his father was incapable of giving up. It would certainly explain a lot.

Sam wordlessly slipped into his normal seat, but Dean slid innocently in the way when John moved to take the seat next to him, watching Bobby do the same on Sam's other side from the corner of his eye. His father's eyes darkened at the show of protectiveness, and Sam shifted uncomfortably, but Dean could tell that he was glad that he wouldn't be forced to sit next to their father.

It was a pretty sad state of affairs, all in all.

"Alright," John said tightly. "Here are my terms: Sam doesn't shift back. He doesn't do anything that might be construed as 'non-human' or 'supernatural', and I don't care whether we're in the presence of other people _or_alone in a motel room. I won't stand for it-"

"Hang on a minute," Dean interrupted calmly, his voice filled with barely-detained malice. "I think you've misunderstood how this is going to go. We've done things on 'your terms' for the past seventeen years and I'm finally realising just how bad an idea that is. So let's start over. You're here because Sam wanted to give you another chance - goodness only knows why - so _we're_ going to set the terms this time."

John's expression darkened.

"You're my sons," He said stiffly. "And I'm your father. That's not how these things work."

Dean's fists clenched on the top of the table and Sam pressed his knee against his big brother's - whether it was for reassurance or to calm Dean down, the elder hunter wasn't sure.

"That's exactly how this is going to work." He growled. "You don't like it? _Leave_."

He could practically see the war in his father's mind - his pride versus his family, and he honestly wasn't sure which one was going to win out. Winchester pride was a vicious creature, and Dean wasn't all that sure that his family-first rules were reciprocated by his father. For the first time in his life, Dean studied his father and found him lacking.

It should have been an easy decision. It wasn't.

"We want you to be in our lives," Sam said quietly, once more trembling. Dean wondered distantly if that was a wolf thing, or whether it was just one more thing about his little brother that he'd never taken the time to learn. "But it can't be like before."

"Why not?" John snapped. "We were doing just fine."

"That's the problem," Dean shot back. "We've spent seventeen years 'doing just fine.' Isn't it time that we did_well_?"

John blinked in apparent surprise, floundering wildly as he fought for an argument. Evidently, he couldn't find one, because his mouth clamped shut and his eyes narrowed a little.

"We're hunters." He said eventually. "You have to train, have to devote your whole life to it, or else you're going to get yourselves killed - there's no half-way measures in a life or death situation, I thought that I'd taught you that."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Why do our entire lives have to be a 'life or death' situation? We need to take a break every once in a while, even if it's just for a day. This obsession? Working day-in, day-out until we're exhausted? _That's_ going to get us killed, dad. We're getting sloppier and sloppier the longer we go on."

John raised an eyebrow and there was a few tense seconds before, finally, he relaxed back into his seat with a sigh.

"Alright, so we do things your way… for now."

-o-

For all that Bobby liked to pretend that he didn't give a crap about whether the Winchester boys were comfortable, Dean thought that the mattresses on his and Sam's beds were pretty damn new. In fact, last time they'd been, he'd sliced a small cut into the mattress and mentioned a busted spring in passing. Needless to say, there was no cut in the mattress that he was currently occupying.

In fact, it was perfectly soft and spongy, curving to support Dean's body as he lay stretched out on his stomach, arms under his pillow and hand gripping his knife more out of habit than a concern about his (or his brother's) safety.

Thankfully, a lifetime of sharing a room – and more often than not, a bed – with his baby brother meant that, even half-asleep and certainly not concentrating, there was very little risk of him _actually_ stabbing his brother.

That didn't mean that he didn't make a big show of jerking his arm to the side when Sam's body weight landed heavily on the side of the bed, narrowly missing one of Dean's legs where it was sprawled slightly diagonally.

"Wha's it, Sammy?" He grumbled half-intelligibly even as he subtly shifted over to offer Sammy a little more room, blinking his eyes open and glancing across at his baby brother, who appeared to have thrown himself down on his back next to Dean.

"Can't sleep," Sam shot back with a small shrug, twisting his head to face his brother. "D'you think dad meant it? Like, for real? No tricks?"

Dean shrugged, resisting the urge to bury his face in the pillow, which was suddenly looked twice as inviting as it had been only moments before.

"Who knows, Sammy," He muttered, reaching a hand out to rub his brother's shoulder. "But you know what? Even if he doesn't, it's not gonna be the end of the world."

There was a long pause, Sam watching him intently, and then he grinned. It was small, but true, and the best thing that Dean had seen in weeks.

"Right, 'cause it's you and me against the world?"

"Got it in one," Dean snorted, and then forced a mock serious frown onto his face. "Now get the hell off my bed. I'm tired, dude."

* * *

><p><em>Double update for you all, since I seem to be neglecting my fanfiction account and - coincidently - you guys! So, lots of apologies from me!<em>

Reviews are love.


	5. Chapter 5

**[5]**

It said a lot about the Winchester family relationship that it was another week before Dean would entertain the idea of their father coming to stay at Bobby's with them. In the end, it was Sam's incessant whining that swung the decision in their father's favour, and Dean was still a little disgruntled when his father arrived with a duffle bag and nothing more than a gruff hello for his sons.

Sam, however, seemed at least a little amused by his older brother's tirade as the elder hunter cursed their father out underneath his breath, cleaning their guns as Sam lay on his stomach and watched.

"—and he thinks that he can waltz in here like nothing's changed and just order us around again? Screw that, Sammy." He paused, taking a good look at his brother for the first time. "What?"

He raised a hand to his face self-consciously, which simply made Sam laugh and shake his head at his brother's ridiculousness.

"Don't you think that you're taking this a little too far?" He asked with a small grin. "I mean, the man apologised."

Dean frowned. "He didn't apologise. He conceded."

"Semantics," Sam shrugged. "He's here, and he's letting you rule the roost, which is as much an apology as we're ever going to get from him. He even offered to go clothes shopping for us so that you didn't have to. Maybe it's time to let this whole thing go."

"Not possible, Sammy."

Sam sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose a little. "Fine, whatever. Just… stop with the subtle bitching, alright? All of this subtext is giving me a headache."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, frowning a little at the creases around Sam's eyes. Clearly he wasn't lying about the headache. "Look, I can put this stuff away. You wanna have a sleep?"

Sam's eyebrows rose in apparent surprise and anger. "What? I'm not four, Dean. I don't need to take a fucking nap."

"Whoa," Dean blinked in surprise, holding his hands up. "Easy there, tiger. It was just a question, no need to get your panties in a bunch. Seriously."

Sam rubbed his forehead again. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap. Look, I'm just gonna… take a walk, alright? I won't go far."

He was up and moving within seconds, before Dean had a chance to register what was happening, and the words didn't fully translate in his addled brain until he realised that he was sat staring at an empty bed.

Something about this whole thing wasn't sitting right with him. Sure, he teased Sam about being a moody bitch, but the kid didn't snap. That was more Dean's thing – or their father's. Sam much preferred to bottle up all of his anger and take it out by knocking it off his (already impressive) running time. Despite being raised a hunter, Sam actively avoided confrontation where possible, and it didn't say a lot for his mental state that he was snapping at Dean for trying to take care of him (because that was Dean's job, damnit).

"Screw this," The elder hunter muttered to himself, throwing the still dismembered gun parts down onto the bed and grabbing his boots – heading out after his brother.

The trail out to the lake was trodden almost flat from years of Sam and Dean's escapes there when they needed to think, or wanted to blow off some steam. A few times they'd even packed up some lunch and spent the day; one memorable time, they'd even tried to fish. It had been a lot harder than either of them had expected, and they'd headed back to Bobby's wet and cold, without ever having successfully removed a fish from the river.

It was a place filled with childhood memories, and some part of Dean was already visualising the sight of his baby brother under the giant tree on the bank – his shoulders slumped in defeat and head hanging low, long brown hair hanging down and hiding his eyes from the world. He wasn't disappointed.

He was, however, surprised to note the arm that Sam had wrapped tightly around his stomach, and the pain lines that had significantly deepened around his face in the fifteen or so minutes since he'd escaped from their bedroom.

"Sam?" Dean asked gently, slowly making his way to his brother's side and crouching down next to him. "What's going on, kiddo? Talk to me."

Sam's head lifted a little, although his eyes seemed slightly unfocused and didn't quite meet Dean's own. For a few seconds, Dean almost thought that his brother was going to answer, and then Sam was letting out a small, animal, sound of pain and doubling over, tipping sideways.

Dean caught him with an ease that spoke of too many years of experience, settling down onto his knees and holding his brother there, feeling the way that his muscles were trembling and his face was awash with pain, ribs frantically expanding as he forced heaving breaths.

Carefully fishing his cell phone out of his pocket, Dean hit speed dial without thought, almost shocked to find himself phoning his father rather than their old friend.

"Dean?" John asked. "That you? Everything alright? You didn't half take off at quite a speed there, boy."

"Something's up with Sammy," Was Dean's reply, his fingers measuring the frantic thump of his brother's pulse even as he answered his father's voice calmly. "Can you grab the kit and head up to meet us at the lake?"

"I'll be right there." His father promised, hanging up in the same instant, and Dean dropped his phone carelessly on the grass, turning his attention back to his brother, who was starting to look a little better. The trembling had all but stopped, and his face was no longer screwed up tight in agony.

"Sammy?"

The seventeen-year old gave a breathy moan in response, blinking his eyes open and frowning up at his brother in apparent confusion.

"You had me worried again there, kid. What's going on?"

"Cramps," Sam panted. "Bad ones."

Dean snorted. "Pretty much worked that out for myself, Einstein, you looked like you were about to seize or something. This happened before?"

Sam didn't answer, and Dean felt betrayal flash through him fast and hot.

"Since when?" He demanded. "Tell me, Sam."

"A few days," The teenager slurred. "Never that bad before, though. Just normal cramps."

Dean nodded, shifting them around so he could pull his jacket off and lay his brother down, resting his head on it. Sam didn't resist, piquing Dean's concern that much further, but the small, contented noise that he made went a long way to making him feel a little better. He'd shut his eyes again, and Dean took that to mean either he had a migraine or a really intense headache.

Thankfully, their father chose that moment to crash through the underbrush with none of the familiarity with which Dean had navigated the woods, and his eyes were widening the second they landed on his youngest son.

"What the hell is going on?" He demanded, hurrying forward and kneeling next to Dean, dropping the medical kit down next to him. "Sam?"

"Head h'rts." Was the barely coherent reply, as John lay his jacket over his youngest son's body, not liking the way that the young boy was beginning to shiver.

"Some kind of muscle cramp," Dean informed him. "His pulse was racing and he went pale – looked like he was gonna start throwing a grand mal any second. Plus the headache… you think this is a shifter thing? Part of the curse?"

John's eyes sharpened and he shook his head.

"No." He said sternly. "It could be loads of things. Stop borrowing trouble, Dean."

Dean's eyes narrowed at the reprimand, but Sam let out a small wolf-like whine, and the young hunter quickly returned his attention to his brother, running his hand gently through his hair as their dad fished for a water bottle and some kind of pain killer. Between the two of them, they got Sam upright and he managed to pry his glassy eyes open long enough to swallow the pills before sagging back into his brother.

John's eyes narrowed slightly at the sight, and Dean's hand tightened unconsciously on Sam's arm before relaxing again, his whole body taught with the effort of not demanding what his father's problem was.

"Sammy?" Dean asked after a few moments, nudging his shoulder gently. The kid took a deep breath, blinked his eyes open and offered a weak smile.

"'S getting better," He muttered, and Dean saw the exact moment that he glanced at their father and realised that he was still splayed out in the dirt, because he was moving in the same second – confused mind telling his brain that he had to get up right the hell now even as his limbs shook and threatened to give out.

"Whoa," Dean muttered, doing his best to manhandle Sam back to the floor and not panic him.

"Sam!" John was snapping. "Sam, you need to calm down right the hell now. Sam!"

Sam stopped resting back against Dean's chest, lungs heaving, and turned his head into the material of Dean's shirt, still trembling a little. The older hunter almost expected his breathing to hitch in silent sobs, or for tears to soak through the material, but he wasn't sure why because Sam didn't cry. Not since he was six and his dad had told him to grow up because hunters don't cry, damn it.

All was silent for a few moments, and then Sam shifted.

"Can get up now," He said evenly, shifting his weight to allow Dean to shift to a more comfortable position. The two of them had Sam standing in a few practiced movements, and though his legs were shaky, he looked a lot better than he had only moments before.

"You gonna make it back to the house?" Dean asked gently, and Sam offered him a weak grin.

"'Course I am," He muttered. "Feelin' ace already."

Dean snorted a laugh, shifting his grip a little on his brother, and then the two of them were moving – John a few steps behind with the medical kit on hand, and Dean was struck again with the realisation that Sam was one damn tough kid.

-o-

"Stress reaction, panic attack," Bobby reeled off, eyes trained on the book in front of him as he reeled off possible diagnoses. "Hypoglycaemia…"

"Sam's not diabetic," Dean interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "Heat stroke?"

"Not hot enough," John sighed, barely glancing up from Bobby's ancient computer. "Uh, cocaine abuse, methamphetamine use, medication side-effects."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "You're a dick, dad. Sam's not taking drugs."

"Could be," John shrugged. "The symptoms fit and you said it yourself – he's dealing with this whole thing pretty well. Maybe he's found himself a nice little coping method? It's possible."

"I take it back," Dean growled. "You're not a dick, you're-"

"Wrong." Bobby interrupted. "Yes, the symptoms fit, but Sam's not taking drugs. I'd stake my life on it. The kid's a hell of a lot smarter than that. Besides, not all of the symptoms fit – cocaine abuse doesn't explain the muscle cramps, methamphetamine use doesn't explain pretty much any of the others aside from shaking, and he hasn't been taking medications for anything."

"It was just a suggestion," John offered calmly. "Anyone got anything else?"

Dean groaned, resisting the urge to throw Sam's laptop on the floor only because he knew the kid would throw a bitch fit if he did.

"Nothing," He sighed. "Look, maybe this is something to do with the curse – Bobby, you said that there was possible side effects if Sam didn't shift?"

The hunter nodded, shooting a cautious glance at the eldest Winchester as he retrieved the manila folder of case files from his desk draw and began flicking through.

"Hmm… Melissa Cartwright from Mississippi experienced 'intense muscular cramps eventually building up to seizures.'" Bobby frowned, "John Durram, Delaware, experienced mood swings, migraines and eventually started coughing up blood. Nearly killed himself through blood loss before they worked out what the hell they were doing-"  
>"Stop," John snapped. "This isn't a shifter, thing, alright? Just leave it alone. It was probably some freak side effect of a twenty-four hour bug. He'll be fine."<p>

"No, dad," Dean sighed. "I'm pretty damn sure that he's not going to be 'fine', because I'm pretty damn sure that this is a shifter thing. You want him to do the same as that John guy? Cough up so much blood that he nearly dies, just because you're too damn stubborn to accept that Sam's not normal anymore? That he's-"

"A freak?" A new voice interrupted from the doorway of the study, and Dean's eyes widened in surprise at the appearance of his younger brother.

"Different," He corrected after a brief moment of panic. "That's all. Not a freak."

Sam shrugged his shoulders a little, wordlessly crossing the room to sink into the chair positioned next to Dean's and slumping into it.

"For the record? It's a shifter thing." He said with ease. "But I still think dad's right – we should try and wait it out. Maybe this is the worst it's going to get, and then it'll fade back out again?"

"It's possible," Bobby frowned. "It'd be surprising if it worked, and damned risky to try it, but it's possible that waiting it out might work. Hell, the magic might burn itself out completely if you leave it long enough."

Dean's eyes widened in surprise.

"God, am I the only sane one left here? You said it yourself, Bobby, this is dangerous shit. Why the hell should we risk it when the simple answer is just to shift back for a little bit?"

"Because it's beyond hypocritical for a hunter to be turning into a wolf every two weeks? Because if we're mid-hunt and I'm desperate to get my wolf on I could get someone killed?" Sam argued, leaning forwards in his agitation. "Because I don't fucking want to be one of the things that we hunt? I don't want to be hunted."  
>Dean blinked in surprise. "God, Sammy. We'd never hunt you-"<p>

"Not you, moron."

"-we'd never let anyone hunt you. Don't you get that?"

"What if you can't stop it?" Sam answered softly, eyes burning into Dean's with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably. "You really think that any self-respecting hunter isn't going to take one look at this screwed up situation and realise that they're going to have to get the three of you out of the way first? And once you're dead? It's not like there's anything else left for me anyway-"

"Fuck that, Sam." Dean snapped. "There's plenty left here for you."

"Like what?" Sam snapped. "A string of empty motel rooms and dead bodies? School records with spotted attendance and a world that's not ever going to know who I am? Maybe a jail cell and a roomie if I'm lucky, a nameless grave in some deserted graveyard if I'm not?"

"Sam," John said softly, and Dean glimpsed something a little bit broken in his eyes. "Sammy."

"No," Sam snapped. "Don't 'Sammy' me. I refuse to be the last soldier standing, alright? I'm not letting you leave me alone. Which means that we're waiting this out, no matter how messy it gets."

-o-

"For the record, I still think this is a crappy idea." Dean told his brother sharply the next day, carefully measuring out the highest dose of painkillers that he could give his brother.

"Shut up," Sam groaned, the muscles in his back rippling as he curled further in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach once more. The bed sheets beneath him were damp with sweat, and Sam seemed to be in even more pain then yesterday. "My… decision, alright?"

It wasn't alright. It wasn't even close to being alright, but Sam was right, it was his decision – for all of the whining and bitching, the endless prodding and cajoling, the gentle coaxing that Dean had offered up yesterday, he couldn't physically force his brother to shift back. That was all down to Sam, and the thought made him sick, because Sam seemed so determined not to shift that Dean couldn't bring himself to be sure that the kid wasn't going to kill himself with the effort.

His whole life, Dean had fought tooth and nail to keep his little brother safe, and it seemed bitterly ironic that now the one thing that Dean had to save him from was himself, and he wasn't sure that it was even possible.

"Alright, up you go, kiddo," Dean muttered, curving his arm around his brother's shoulders and slipping behind him on the bed to support him – helping him swallow down the pills with a large sip of water. The seventeen-year-old's muscles were contracting beneath his skin, forcing him to jerk a little against his brother, and his earlier coherence seemed to have left him completely.

Dean sighed, leaning back against the headboard and shifting his brother to lean more comfortably against him, running his hand through his hair. The teenager made a soft, whining noise at the action and Dean sighed, pressing a small kiss to the top of his head.

"Don't you die on me, kid," He whispered. "Don't you ever die on me."

* * *

><p>I solemnly sweat there <em>will<em> be some action soon! In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed some more hurt!sammy.

Here's 'till next time, folks.


	6. Chapter 6

**[6]**

"They're not getting any better," Dean sighed, slumping down onto the sofa next to Bobby and his father. "Don't you think that if they were going to get better, they'd have done it already?"

Bobby sighed, pulling his baseball cap off for just long enough to run a hand through his hair before putting it back on. "I wish I could tell you, Ace. Truth is, there's not many idjits out there willing to try and 'wait out' a curse like this. I could take weeks; months… it might never work. There's no way to tell for sure."

"Months?" Dean snapped incredulously. "No, that's not going to happen. Sam's been at this for four days and things are only getting worse – he hasn't kept any food down since yesterday morning, and he hasn't even managed water in a few hours. Fuck, he's not even coherent anymore. I'm not letting him kill himself." His eyes found his father's and held them tersely. "This ends tonight."

He expected a fight. For his father to throw one of the hissy-fits that seemed ever frequent since the curse, but all John did was sigh quietly, and nod. "You're right, we'll find another way. But first we have to convince Sam to change back."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, staring at his father with wide-eyed disbelief. "Yeah, let's do that."

"Now?" John raised an eyebrow, apparently surprised at his eldest son's haste. "Hasn't he just had another… episode?"

"Yeah, and this way maybe he can avoid having another one," Dean shot back, rising to his feet without hesitation and heading back to the bedroom that he'd vacated only moments earlier. His father's footsteps didn't follow him for a long second, and Dean heard the exact moment that his feet hit the floor with a sigh and he brought up the rear.

Sam was sleeping restlessly, his head twisting a little on his pillow and sweat dampening his brow; his chest was rising faster than Dean was comfortable with, and he didn't need to rest his fingers on a pulse point to know that the kid's heart would be racing.

His condition had deteriorated rapidly over the past four days, the 'episodes' coming closer and closer together and leaving less time for recovery in between. Muscles spasms and a headache had been accompanied with nosebleeds (though thankfully, never for more than a few seconds and not particularly often) and nausea, not to mention that he was practically incoherent.

"Sam?" Dean asked gently, lowering himself onto the bed next to the teen and gently nudging him. "Come on Sammy, open those eyes."

For a few seconds he waited with his heart in his throat, sure that his brother was too far gone to react, and then Sam blinked his eyes open with what appeared to be considerable effort on his part. Dean wasn't sure why he was surprised; he was pretty sure that his brother would do what Dean asked him to even if his guts were lying on the floor.

"We want you to shift, Sam," He told his younger brother gently. "This isn't working, and you're getting weaker."

Sam made a wounded, animal noise, turning his head away as if to shake it. Dean gripped his chin with unwavering hands, forcing their eyes to meet and shook his head. "This isn't worth killing yourself over, Sam. If you're sure about this, we'll find another way."

The second noise was just as animal as the first, but quieter, and accompanied by the sounds of bones cracking and breaking. Sam was clearly prepared for the pain this time, his breathing speeding up only a little (although that might have had more to do with the amount of pain he was already in) as he curled in on himself.

John made a slightly disgusted noise as Sam's face elongated and Dean shot him a dark glare, hoping that his brother was too far gone to comprehend his father's disgust.

The shift seemed to take longer than even the first one had, but eventually a distinctly wolfy-Sam was collapsing onto his side, still entangled in his clothes. Thankfully, he'd been dressed in too-big sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, rather than his usual layers and jeans, because Dean was pretty sure he would have hurt himself.

Dean smiled fondly at the sight of his material entangled brother, gently manhandling his canine shape in order to remove the items of clothing. Sam gave the back of his hand a gentle lick as he did so, closing his eyes and relaxing back against the bed, the frantic heaving of his ribs finally easing into a much more relaxed and even in-and-out motion.

"There's a boy," Dean half-whispered, running his hands through the fur on the back of Sam's neck gently, soothing the seventeen year old deeper into sleep before removing his hand and standing stiffly, pulling the covers over the sleeping wolf and doing his best to untangle the sheets and lay them flat once more. "Come on, dad. He needs rest."

John nodded mutely, eyes still locked on the sleeping figure of his son, but moved wordlessly when Dean nodded to the door, finding his way to the kitchen table in what appeared to be a blind stupor.

Bobby had coffee waiting for them on the table, still hot enough to scald Dean's hand as he took a large gulp, but his father didn't move other than to wrap his hands around his mug.

"Dad?"

John blinked, focusing on his eldest son for the first time since Sam had begun his shift.

"Was it that painful, before?" He asked hesitantly, his eyes searching Dean's for some kind of hint. Dean nodded slowly, reluctant to give his father any more ammunition in his Sam-shouldn't-shift-crusade.

"Bobby says it'll be easier and less painful if he practices more often," The young man offered. "That his body will start to adjust to the change… release endorphins and stuff."

John nodded, and Dean didn't try and coerce any more conversation out of him. Dean honestly wasn't sure that he wanted to know what his father was thinking.

-o-

Dean drifted out of sleep slowly, relaxed and warm. The press of another body curled into a tight ball against his side didn't startle him as it had before, the soft fur against his arm a welcome assurance that it was simply his brother – sleeping soundly, and completely relaxed for the first time in days. So relaxed, in fact, that Dean couldn't even work up a decent level of irritation with his new bed-sharing habits.

He still remembered the eight year old that had begged to share with Dean even when he had a bed of his own and, only a few years later, the twelve-year old that would groan with annoyance every time their father paid for a two-bed room. In some ways, it was nice to have the familiar body pressed against his – although Dean knew that such intimacies made their father uncomfortable, regardless on the fact that there wasn't (and never would be) anything un-platonic about it, he also recognised that it was reassuring to know that his brother was safe, even in sleep.

His father could frown at them all he wanted, because when it came down to it, it was him that had looked a four-year-old Dean in the eyes and informed him shortly that it was his job to, 'take care of Sammy.' Who was he to turn around seventeen years later and change his mind?

Shifting slightly, Dean released his grip from the knife under his pillow, flexing his fingers a few times before pushing up into an almost crawling-like position. Sam's body unravelled a little to compensate for the extra space, sprawling out partially underneath Dean's raised body as he grinned and rolled his eyes, climbing off the bed as carefully as he could.

Usually a light sleeper, he could admit to expecting his little brother to awaken when he removed his weight from the bed, but the teenager simple let out a slightly displeased whine from the back of his throat, probably more due to the disturbance than the fact that Dean was leaving, and relaxed back into sleep, ribs moving steadily underneath his fur.

Feeling oddly sentimental, Dean paused for long enough to tuck a pillow in the place he'd previously been lying in (because he still remembered his father telling him that wolves slept in puppy piles, often seeking out the physical presence of another when asleep), before tucking the covers back around his slumbering brother and scratching gently behind his ears before heading downstairs for breakfast.

Bobby and his father were already at the table, eating a breakfast in a comfortable silence.

"There's some stuff in the oven for you and that idjit brother of yours," Bobby informed him with a soft smile that belied the gruff words, nodding at the kitchenware in question, before glancing at the doorway with a surprised look. "Sam still sleeping?"

"Like a baby," Dean grinned, fetching his plate and a cup of coffee before settling down into his usual seat. "I think the change wore him out again… and the stress his body went through trying to resist it beforehand."

Bobby nodded sombrely.

"So," John said casually, nudging a paper across the table towards his eldest son. "There's a possible hunt over in Nebraska. Looks like a poltergeist."

Dean hesitated, before pushing the paper back at his father. "Sam's not ready."

"I didn't mean that," John said, rolling his eyes. "Bobby and I were thinking about tackling this one, but I wanted to run it by you guys first. Make sure that you were alright with us leaving – maybe you could even work the phones whilst we're gone."

The statement surprised Dean, and for a long second he almost contemplated saying no – if only because he wanted to find out whether his father would really listen. Instead, he slowly nodded his head.

"Yeah, that sounds alright. Sam and I can hold the fort here for a little bit." He said hesitantly, and then. "Look, don't think I'm not grateful, because I am, but why the sudden concern over our feelings? You've never asked us whether or not you leaving was alright before."

John shifted, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"I know," He confessed. "If I'm honest, I didn't really think about what it must have been like for the two of you at all, but I'm beginning to realise how much of a mistake that was on my behalf. I've not been the best parent to you, Dean, and I'm not too narrow-minded to admit that you probably contributed to raising Sam a lot more than I did. The truth is, this entire situation has made me really think about what's important, and I've realised that I was wrong – it's not revenge for your mother, not stopping the thing that killed her. It's the two of you. The two best things that she ever gave me."

His father looked more earnest than Dean had ever seen him, and the young man was rendered speechless by his father's words, glancing briefly across at Bobby to find the old man just as surprised. Clearly John's impromptu speech hadn't been planned in any capacity, and that only served to make it all the more real.

"We understand," He managed eventually. "Both of us… always have, no matter how much Sam likes to push you sometimes, we both know how important hunting is."

"It is important," John agreed sagely. "But you should never have been made to believe that it was more important than the two of you. You're my sons and I love you, even if I sometimes I do go about showing it a little wrong."

-o-

Sam woke up an hour or so after their father had cornered Dean at the breakfast table, and when John requested that the two of them talk (or rather, John talk and wolf-Sam make some questionable noises), Dean gave them their space. Both of them looked a little happier when they emerged from Bobby's study, and Dean could only hope that this tentative truce would last.

For all that he'd been the one to, finally, suggest that him and his brother leave their father, all he'd ever really wanted was for his family to be content with each other and their lives, rather than the warring armies that they'd become over the past year or so.

Sam, predictably, headed straight for his brother upon stepping out of the office, clambering up onto the small sofa that Dean was played across and jumping neatly over his legs to curl up in the small space behind them, head resting on his brother's shins as his tail wagged contentedly.

Dean raised an eyebrow at the open display of affection.

"Maybe we should get you a teddy bear," He mused aloud. "Something big and fluffy. Maybe with some pink bows or glitter…"

Sam front paw slipped into his stomach, and Dean doubled over with an indignant shout.

"Hey! Not cool, dude, I was just trying to be helpful-"

The second paw joined the first, and Dean couldn't help the laughter that broke free.

"Dude, doing a bitchface as a wolf should be completely impossible!" He snorted, resting back against the sofa. Sam hesitated for a few moments, clearly trying to decide whether anymore teasing was going to be aimed his way before he relaxed back into his spot, one paw resting next to his head.

"He sleeping?" John asked quietly from somewhere behind Dean a few moments later, and the younger hunter twisted his torso, trying to work out where his father was without disturbing his brother who, by the looks of things, had indeed dozed off. John obviously took pity on him, rounding the end of the sofa even as his eyes stayed locked on his youngest son.

"Cat-napping," Dean grinned and then, a little more hesitantly. "Shifting really takes it out of him."

John nodded, taking a few quiet steps to the armchair near Sam and settling into it, glancing thoughtfully at Dean. "You said that should get easier with practice?"

"That's what Bobby says. You gonna let him practice?" Dean shot back with a raised eyebrow, his tone not confrontational but genuinely curious.

"I can't lie and say that I'm okay with all of this," John sighed. "Because I'm really, really not. But that the same time, I'm not gonna let by and watch my son hurt himself – watch me cause it – if there's another option. I'll keep looking for another way to get out of this, but in the meantime, I agree that Sam should be shifting when his body needs to."

He was still clearly unhappy with the situation, but his eyes were no longer calculating – calm and affectionate as he watched his youngest sleep soundly, snout tucking underneath his exposed paw, and it was progress that Dean hadn't been sure that they'd ever make.

He nodded carefully, offering his father a true smile for what felt like the first time in months.

"That's all we can ask."

* * *

><p>So, the length between updates has been ridiculously long, whoops...<p>

_Hint: Reviews make writing quicker!_


	7. Chapter 7

**[7]**

It took Dean a further week before both Dean and John – who had been making a considerable effort since their little heart to heart – agreed that he and Bobby should head out and handle things in Nebraska. Sam's changes were already starting to get shorter and (according to Sam) a little less painful, although his diminished appetite (and sudden habit of falling asleep when he sat still for more than ten minutes) suggested to Dean that the younger hunter might be fudging the truth a little bit there.

Still, it was better than Sam writhing in pain; sweat dripping from his head and blood trickling from his nose. Dean would do anything to never have to see that again – even if it meant forcing his brother to undergo a slightly less violent pain once a week in the hopes that, eventually, it would get better.

Ironically enough, it was only a day after Bobby and John headed out that Dean noticed a problem; it appeared that for all of their father (and Bobby's) paranoid warnings about things that could go wrong – and who to contact if they did – neither of them had remembered to stock up on food. The fridge was completely empty save for a half-open bottle of mayonnaise, two slices of ham that looked vaguely green in colour and – bizarrely – a nice looking, bright red pepper.

Which, unfortunately, meant grocery shopping.

Sam had been reluctant to head into town, and Dean was fairly confident that his baby brother was strangely paranoid that someone was going to look at him and realise that there was something different – supernatural – about him. It was a fairly ridiculous notion, but all the same it had Dean's paranoia rearing its head as soon as the thought hit him.

Although it would be a rare occurrence to run into another hunter in Bobby's hometown, there was always the chance that someone might have stopped into the local motel room with the intention of heading down to Bobby's for information; it was unlikely as hell, true, but so was the idea of a hunter being cursed to live out the rest of their life as a Shapeshifter.

Still, Dean couldn't just let his brother turn himself into a hermit, so he settled for ramming a gun into both of their waistbands before they headed out.

"This still seems like a really bad plan," Sam sighed from the passenger seat, running a hand through his hair. Dean was relieved to see that the black bags underneath his eyes had started to fade (and just when he'd thought they might become a permanent fixture on his brother's face) and he looked a little healthier. "Are you sure there was nothing in the house?"

"Nothing edible." Dean answered patiently, shoving the Impala's door open and stepping out into the cool afternoon air. "Besides, it's not like you've got anything to be worried about. I'll be with you the whole time, and I'm not exactly going to stand by and watch while some weirdo shoots you full of silver, am I?"

"Thanks, Dean." Sam groused, rolling his eyes in irritation even as he reluctantly climbed out of the car. "That's really reassuring."

Dean shrugged. "Matter of opinion; now get your ass moving. I actually want to make it back to the yard before nightfall."

Sam sighed again, but he fell into step beside his brother nonetheless, their shoulders brushing as they headed into the Walmart. Dean was thankful again that their father had done their shopping for them as an act of penance (and considering the general Winchester hatred for shopping, it really did show just how sorry he'd been about the whole situation), meaning that they'd only have to grab enough food to last them before they headed out.

"So," Dean grinned, snagging a trolley as he headed through the automatic doors. "What are you feeling Sammy? Stakes? Lasagne?"

The younger Winchester grinned despite himself. "No, moron. We'll be better off just stocking up on cans and some everyday stuff – that way what we don't eat will keep."

"You're one boring teenager, Sam Winchester." Dean groused, already steering the cart in the right direction. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Matter of opinion," Sam shot back, reusing his brother's words before dropping his volume. "Not many seventeen year olds can turn themselves into a wolf at will."

Dean blinked in surprise at his younger brother's sudden shift in attitude towards his situation, but had to concede that it was a fair point. Apparently, his brother was a lot more interesting than he gave him credit for.

"Cans are up here," Sam informed idly, nudging the cart in the right direction when it looked like his brother was about to steer right past it, peeling away from him a little to browse the aisle.

By all rights, both boys should have been sick of the sight of spaghetti-o's and tinned 'sausage and beans' after seventeen years of living off them, but Dean begrudgingly had to admit that the ability to recognise them by the colour of the tin alone came in pretty handy sometimes. Needless to say, the two of them had the cart well stocked within a matter of minutes, and after zipping around to get a few of the essentials (namely the likes of bread and beer), Dean happily led them to the desert aisle which (he was happy to note) backed right onto the pet aisle.

The little devil on his shoulder wouldn't leave him be and, content with the knowledge that Sam would be no more than a few feet away, he mumbled an excuse and made his escape. Sam didn't seem particularly perturbed by his brother's absence (clearly debating the merits of two different chocolate cakes was more important), and by the time that Dean returned and hastily buried his items at the bottom of the cart, Sam still hadn't moved.

Grinning a little to himself, Dean told the younger hunter just to throw both cakes in and threw in a pie for good measure, before steering them to the checkout. He had a brief moment of panic when he got there, realising that if he couldn't distract Sam his surprise would be ruined, but he really shouldn't have worried. Sam's eyes were already longingly focused on the Impala through the glass storefront.

Dean made a show of sighing as he chucked his keys to his brother, but Sam's relieved grin was enough to ensure that Dean wasn't actually bothered, and he happily watched his brother's journey to the car as he waited his turn.

The cashier was an older lady, pretty in a mom-like way, but her smile was a little too faked for Dean's liking.

"Little brother?" She asked pleasantly as she scanned the shopping through. Dean hesitated; a hunter's instinct to keep all of his cards held tightly to his chest warring with the part of him that didn't want to come across as rude. Finally, he nodded a little and made a vaguely agreeing noise, clearly discouraging any other conversation without directly rebuffing her.

She didn't seem to take the hint. "You two seem pretty close – that's pretty unusual, these days."

"We get along alright." Dean shrugged, stuffing the groceries into bags as fast as he could without looking like he was trying to escape.

He had to resist the urge to let loose a sigh of relief when she read off how much he owed, shoving just enough to cover it in her general direction and telling her to keep the change. He knew he was being paranoid, that she was probably just being friendly, but he suddenly really wanted to be back inside the Salvage Yard, with protective wards and sigils to keep out anything untoward.

On the plus side, the layout of the store meant that he could keep his eyes trained on his brother as he headed out to the car (although he did almost walk into a young mother and a double buggy, which was a little embarrassing). It helped lessen his paranoia a little, but he was a hunter – he knew better than anyone that it was vital to listen to your instincts.

And his instincts were telling him to get the hell out.

He made it to the Impala in record time, gracelessly dumping the grocery bags in the back footwells before gratefully sliding into the driver's seat and slamming the door shut.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, craning his head to try and see any potential threats and clearly coming up blank – turning back to his brother with a raised eyebrow that didn't quite dispel his vaguely unsettled look. "That cashier try and hit on you or something? The fact that she's old enough to be our mom really wasn't a good enough reason to run for the hills, you know. She probably knows that 'no' means 'no'."

"Ha ha," Dean groused, sliding the key into the ignition with a lot less than his usual key. "I dunno. Something's just not right around here. I'm probably just freaking out over nothing."

There was a long pause, and when Dean glanced over at his younger brother, he decided straight away that he didn't like the look on the kid's face.

"What?"

"I don't think you're being stupid." Sam said quietly. "I was freaking out, too. I thought I was just being paranoid… that's why I came back to the car. I didn't want you to think that there was something wrong."

Dean pulled out of the parking lot with a frown.

"Something was wrong."

-o-

Dean didn't drive straight back to the Salvage Yard. Instead, he coasted straight past the turning and took them on a twenty-minute detour in the hopes that if anyone was following them, they'd mess up and show themselves. If there was anyone there, they were good enough that neither of the Winchester's spotted them, and after driving in a circle for the third time, Dean finally decided that they were wasting their time.

"Maybe we just imagined it," Sam said, his voice slightly hopeful. Neither of them believed it – the chances of both of them randomly freaking out over nothing were beyond slim. "Okay. So that's not very likely. We might have just overreacted, though. Maybe there was someone watching us; why assume that it's something evil? It could have just been a curious civilian, for all we know."

"Winchester luck, for a start." Dean sighed. "Look, we can re-do the wards when we get in, make a quick round of the yard and then I'll put in a call to Bobby and Dad. Better safe than sorry."

His baby seemed to purr her agreement, the speed creeping up a little as if in agreement; on the seat next to him, Sam nodded reluctantly, giving Dean just the tiniest glimpse of the expression on his face as he did so.

"What's going on in that head of yours, Sammy?" Dean asked, frowning at the stressed look on his brother's face. The turn off for Bobby's appeared in the distance, and Sam didn't talk until they'd turned into it – as if worried that something would overhear.

"It's nothing, just…" He hesitated for a long moment, but Dean refused to be deterred. Stubbornness was a trait that all three Winchester's shared, after all. "It's like, in the back of my mind, I can feel my… inner wolf? I don't know, it sounds stupid."

Dean thought about that for a long second. "Nah, that actually makes a little bit of sense. I mean, wolves have instincts and shit, right? It would be more stupid if you just weren't aware of them."

"I guess so. But my wolf? It's freaking the hell out."

"Right," Dean sighed. "Of course it is. And we have no idea why – never mind the fact that backup has just skipped off into the mountains and the nearest hunter is over a hundred miles away. Fuck."

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly as the Impala pulled to a stop. "You don't think that this is because of me, do you?"

The truth was, Dean really didn't know. He was supposed to be Sam's big brother; to be able to protect him from everything, for as long as he was able, but this time he was just as much in the dark. He had no idea what was going on (if anything even was going on), and that scared him more than anything.

For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester didn't feel like a hunter.

He felt like prey.

"Alright," Sam informed his brother as he stepped into the kitchen, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve. "All of the wards and sigils have been redone – I even went over the devils trap on the ceiling above the front door. There's nothing evil getting in here. You find anything?"

Dean shook his head, frustrated that his instincts were screaming at him, but he couldn't find any reason for it. "Nothing. The entire yard was clean – no EMF, no sulphur, no footprints. Nothing that would indicate that anything's been here whilst we've been gone, or is still here now."

"Did you phone Dad?"

"He didn't answer," Dean sighed. "I left him a voicemail, and I figured I'd try again in an hour or so. If they got there late last night, they'll probably still be sleeping. You know what they're like."

If Dean was honest with himself, the fact that his father hadn't answered his phone had made him angry all over again. It seemed just typical that, after all of his promises to be there for them, he wouldn't answer his phone when they really needed him.

"I wish I knew what was going on," Sam sighed, sinking into a kitchen chair and rubbing his temple distractedly. "I hate waiting."

"Me too, kiddo," Dean sighed, before grinning a little, and dropping the duffel bag that he'd been carrying onto the dining room table. "But we can be prepared, and that's something, right? I'm thinking we do our best to cover every angle – holy water in super soakers, your iron throwing knives, silver bullets, the crossbow and a machete in case our new friends need beheading… anything else you think we might need?"

"I think you got it covered." Sam grinned.

"Yeah, well," Dean smiled. "Like I said, better safe than sorry. It never hurts to be prepared."

-o-

Seven hours later found the boys (and their mini-armoury) in Bobby's lounge; the TV was playing some old werewolf film, and although it was on mute, the flickering of images served as something other than the growing sense of paranoia to focus on. Sam had curled up on the couch under a blanket, an iron throwing knife in one hand and a gun loaded with silver bullets in the other.

It hadn't escaped Dean's notice that his fingers were burnt where he'd been handling the bullets, but either Sam hadn't seen fit to mention it or he honestly hadn't noticed. With Sam, it was hard to tell.

Unsurprisingly, he'd dozed off, although the way that his eyes flickered beneath their lids every time Dean moved assured him that it wasn't a deep sleep – he knew his brother better than anyone, and he knew that if the need arose, his brother could go from REM sleep to wide awake in the blink of an eye. Despite the situation, he was just glad that he was catching up on some much-needed rest.

Dean had used the time to patrol the inside of the house every hour, and call his father three times an hour. He still hadn't gotten a response, and he was starting to worry a little despite himself – although it was hard to tell whether he was scared for his father and Bobby, or himself and Sam.

Neither situation seemed brilliant.

"What time 's it?" Sam slurred fuzzily, blinking his eyes awake.

"Nearly one in the morning," Dean grinned, although the expression was forced. "How you feeling?"

"Great," Sam answered with no enthusiasm. "I'm assuming nothing interesting happened whilst I was out?"

"If it had, you'd be the first to know," Dean sighed, shifting slightly in his seat. He opened his mouth to continue, but the look of sudden apprehension on his brother's face cut him off.

"What?"

"There's someone out there," Sam whispered, nodding to the window. True enough; three shadows flitted across the drawn blinds merely seconds later. For a strange second, Dean opened his mouth to ask how Sam had know, and then the more important matter at hand hit him – there were three people (creatures, things) outside.

Three things that really shouldn't be out there.

"Well then," Dean whispered back, checking his handgun one more time. "Looks like it's go time."

* * *

><p><em>Hint: reviews provide the perfect inspiration for more stories!<em>


	8. Chapter 8

**[8]**

"Divide and conquer?" Sam whispered around a clearly-forced grin, shifting onto the balls of his feet and flexing his fingers around the butt of his own gun.

"Like hell," Dean snorted quietly, creeping towards the doorway. "There's no way I'm letting you out of my sight – last time that happened, you damn near collapsed in my arms when I tracked you down, and the time before _that_ you got yourself cursed!"

Sam hesitated, looking angry from a brief second, and then nodded. "Yeah, fair enough. So we take them together?"

"Best plan we've got, little brother," Dean answered gently, peering around the doorway just in time to see the front door crack open near-silently. Dean groaned inwardly – there went his hopes that whatever was lurking in the shadows wouldn't be able to cross Bobby's protective wards. That had already ruled out countless supernatural beings – werewolves, ghosts, poltergeists, all different kinds of fae… the list continued.

Pressing his finger to his lips, Dean cocked his head at the empty space on the other side of the door. The darkness in the hallway meant that the infiltrators would be unable to see them until it was too late, and Dean held his breath as the first of the three figures stepped inside the doorway, closely followed by the other two.

The room descended into chaos.

In the darkness, it was hard to tell what was going on – Dean struck left, where the outline of the first of the intruders was, and landed a solid hit to their head. Only seconds later, something caught him in the stomach (a fist, a foot or a book, Dean really wasn't sure) and he doubled over in time to avoid a blade that had been swinging for his head, his gun clattering to the floor. There was the noise of tearing fabric, a brush of fur against his leg, and then Sammy made a noise that could only be described as a _snarl,_ and Dean scrambled for the light switch.

Light flooded the room in a dizzying instant, and Dean frantically blinked his eyes to clear the blurriness from them.

The first thing that his eyes fell on was his gun, placed – thankfully – between himself and Sam, who had managed to position himself between his brother and the three unknown attackers. From the sounds of tearing clothes and the brush of fur against his leg, Dean had expected to find his brother in wolf form – snarling and dangerous.

He wasn't.

Fully human, he was crouched low, weight on the balls of his feet – ready to dart in any direction if he had to. His hands, from where Dean was position, were visibly shaking with adrenaline but his breathing was steady and calm. Not for the first time, Dean was sure that the human he was seeing was more the wolf than his brother.

The attackers, for their part, didn't seem too fazed. Sam had rounded them into a corner (and Dean was going to have serious words with him later about trying to take over Dean's job as the protector, and the fact that all the evidence seemed to suggest that his little brother could see in the dark), and it seemed that one of them had been the one to shift.

The small stature of the canine body suggested a female, with a russet coat and piercing blue eyes. With his brother in the room, Dean couldn't bring himself to be too concerned about the possibility of a threat from her sharp teeth – Sam had made it clear that she wasn't getting through him.

The two men, however, were (if not completely human, and Dean's instincts were telling him that they weren't) at least in human form – the taller of the two, dark hair cropped close, grinning widely and clapping his hands slowly.

"A Shifter working with a hunter?" He drawled, eyes flickering to Dean over Sam's shoulder, before falling back on the younger Winchester. "Clever. Nearly threw us off – if it hadn't been for the fact that you were projecting all over the place, pup, we might never have considered you to be one of us."

"I'm _not_ one of you." Sam snapped, and Dean figured that was as good a time as any for him to finally leave his place from the light switch and, collecting his gun along the way, settle into position next to his brother.

"I think you're mistaken, boy," The second guy, blonde-haired and almost feral-looking, leered at the teenager. "You can Shift, yes? That makes you one of us – and we don't take kindly to Shifters bumbling around and projecting all over our territory."

Sam blinked, and then frowned. "Projecting?"

"You really have no idea what you are, do you boy? What you're capable of." Dark-hair asked, smiling maliciously. Silence fell in the room for a few minutes, save for the female wolf shifting around and settling back onto her haunches, the picture of relaxation. Dean glanced around, not liking the look on his brother's face.

"Sam?"

"He's-" The teenager broke off, hissing in pain. "My _head_."

"What?" Dean asked, propping his hand under his brother's elbow when the younger boy swayed dangerously, threatening to tip over completely. "Fuck. Sam? _Sam!_ What the hell are you doing to him?"

The leader of the small group smiled again, and the wolf on the floor made that very same wheezy-hacking noise that Dean had come to recognise as laughter. "We're just showing him what we're capable of, that's all."

Sam was shaking, fine tremors of pain that Dean had _really_ come to hate over the past few weeks and, really, couldn't the kid just catch a break?

"Lay off him, for fuck's sake!" Dean growled, cocking the gun, his finger on the trigger.

"Or you'll shoot me?"

Sam's shoulders tensed, and an inscrutable expression crossed his face – seconds later, the guy Dean was aiming at was stumbling backwards, swearing up a storm and Sam's nose was bleeding, crimson liquid dripping slowly down onto his lip as he blinked his eyes clear.

"What the hell?" The light-haired Shifter hissed, catching his comrade as the older man took an undignified stumble towards the floor. The female wolf snarled, lunging forwards, but Sam was already focused on her – lunging forwards to intercept her attack.

For a moment, Dean's eyes and brain couldn't reconcile what was going on before him, and then his brain stuttered to realisation – Sam leapt from the floor in one smooth movement, and then there was a sharp cracking noise, the noise of a hundred and four bones breaking and realigning in one instant, and his brother was landing as a wolf.

It was the fastest his brother had ever shifted, and Dean had no disillusions about the fact the pain must have been intense, but Sam didn't let it show. He collided with the female wolf, only slightly smaller than him, with a hollow thud that made Dean wince, and then the two of them were snarling – rolling over and over in a tangle of limbs, and Dean couldn't tell who was winning.

Shoving his companion back onto his feet, the blonde-haired Shifter made to rush forwards. A bullet to the heart stopped him, and Dean felt little remorse when the body fell to the floor, knife clattering onto the wooden flooring.

The second man was still stumbling slightly, confusion on his face, and Dean didn't see him as too much of a threat, so he settled for sending the butt of his gun careening into the man's face, sending him into a crumpled heap on the floor next to his friend.

On the other side of the room, Sam darted to his feet, blood on his maw and fire in his eyes.

Dean didn't hesitate – sending the second bullet of the evening straight into the other wolf's chest.

It was an hour, a very painful shift, an argument, and a few lengths of rope later that Dean dumped the only remaining live wolf into Bobby's newly-installed panic room.

Dean was mainly impressed that his brother had managed to cling to consciousness; if he was honest, he was impressed that the kid had managed the shift back at all. From the looks of things, Sam hadn't gotten away with his tussle with the other shifter unharmed; the gash on his side had reopened a little, and he had three painful-looking gashes on his left cheek, a smaller one on his right temple to match.

His arms were scratched, along with his stomach, and he had a nasty looking bite wound on the ridge of his hipbone. Thankfully, none of the injuries seemed too severe or deep, and although Dean knew that at least a few of them were going to need bandages, he was more worried about what two shifts in such quick succession would do to Sam's body.

Though he was dealing better with the weekly ones, he wasn't exactly an expert, and he was still sleeping more and eating less than usual. Dean really hoped this didn't screw up all of the progress that he'd been making.

"He woken up yet?" Sam slurred, leaning heavily in the doorway at the top of the stairs.

"Still out for the count," Dean replied, with a slight shake of his head. "You get in touch with Dad and Bobby?"

"Yeah," Sam grinned, tapping his head against the doorframe lightly. "Apparently the poltergeist messed with their phones. They didn't even realise until they'd finished and got back to the motel. Dad was pissed as hell."

"Figured as much." Dean grinned, tugging his brother gently towards the front room. "Come on. I can keep watch for a bit, you look like you could use a nap."

Sam nodded reluctantly, glancing back at the door for a brief second before allowing himself to be steered towards the pile of blankets still covering the sofa.

"Feels like all I ever do these days is sleep," He grumbled unhappily, but his actions as he crawled into the tangle of blankets were far less than reluctant. It seemed that, for all of Sam's complaining, he really could use the sleep. He shifted for a few seconds, before settling in a loose ball on his side. Dean almost thought he was asleep, and then he blinked his eyes open and frowned. "Hey, Dean?"

"What, Sammy?"

"You didn't use the silver cuffs, right?"

"No, Sammy," Dean frowned, remembering their earlier argument. Dean had argued that binding the shifter in silver was the safest thing for the both of them, Sam had argued – rubbing the burns on his fingertips left over from handling the silver bullets – that it was inhumane. In fact, he'd suggested that leaving a shifter cuffed in silver was a kind of torture in its own right. Dean couldn't really argue around that one and, although he'd firmly told Sam that they'd be sleeping in shifts until their dad and Bobby got home, he'd eventually relented.

Sam hummed his appreciation, letting his eyelids drift close, but Dean couldn't resist the urge to ask a more pressing question.

"Hey, Sammy?" Sam blinked his eyes open in response. "What was all of that earlier? With… your head? And then that guy flying back and your nose bleeding…"

"Honestly? I don't know," Sam confessed. "At first it was like something sharp was pressing into my brain, and I could _hear_ him laughing even though I knew he wasn't doing it out loud, and then… well, I realised that if he could push at me, then I could push back, right? So I tried it."

"And?"

"And I guess it worked. Felt kind of like a little mini-mental explosion, and I got a nosebleed for my efforts, but the guy stopped quickly enough." He yawned. "Can I sleep now?"

"Yeah, Sam. Go to sleep." Dean answered with a patient smile, but he couldn't help but remember the look on the other Shifter's face as Sam's mental 'explosion' sent him reeling, and part of him wondered whether that was normal. It certainly hadn't looked it to him… not to mention the fact that his dad was going to have a field day with the fact that Sam was going to be experiencing serious difficulties around silver.

It looked like life for the Winchester's was just going to get that little bit more complicated.


	9. Chapter 9

**[9]**

The night was, predictably, long.

Despite Dean's big brother instincts telling him to leave his brother to his sleep, he knew that doing so would probably just piss the teenager off – there was no easier way to annoy Sam than to imply (intentionally or not) that he wasn't as good a hunter as his father or brother. Moreover, the hunter in him was too well trained to think that staying up on watch all night with a potentially dangerous shifter in the basement was even remotely safe.

Instead, he and his brother took three-hour shifts; enough time for them to have a decent rest and be rejuvenated enough to take watch once more when they woke up. Predictably, Sam was pretty nervous about having another shifter in the house, but it wasn't until the first rays of morning light shone through the window that Dean got him to admit why.

"I can sense him," The younger boy admitted, keeping his head angled away from Dean's as if ashamed. The scratches on his face looked black in the dim light, and Dean felt anger stir deep in his gut at the sight of them. "Like, the wolf in my brain feels the need to remind me every two seconds that there's a strange wolf in the basement. Not just that, but an alpha wolf. It's like… even him just being there is a threat."

"Come on, Sammy," Dean nudged gently, settling onto the sofa next to his brother. "You've got to know by now that I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

If anything, Sam seemed more embarrassed at the statement, a dark blush rising in his cheeks.

"That's not what I meant," He explained haltingly, rubbing his hands together nervously. "It's not that him being here is threatening _me_, it's… you know how wolf packs work, right? They have alphas, and betas, and then pack wolves. Omegas. Like a hierarchy. Well, my wolf knows that dad's the alpha and you're the beta, but he also knows that you're _not_a wolf – I guess it's like a pet dog seeing its owner as its alpha."

Dean nodded, not entirely sure where his brother was taking this, but willing to let him continue nonetheless. If it was making him uncomfortable to admit it, than it was better that Dean didn't say anything until he was done – the last thing Dean wanted was to interrupt him half-way and have him get too embarrassed to continue.

"Okay, so logically the wolf – me, I guess – knows that the two of you can take care of yourselves without my interference, but…"

"He wants to protect us." Dean muttered, finally understanding what his little brother was trying to protect us. "So your wolf thinks the shifter downstairs is a threat to me and dad?"

Sam nodded gratefully. "In order to take over a pack, wolves either kill off the old alpha or run them out of the pack. My wolf just doesn't want that to happen, that's all."

"Alright," Dean asked curiously. "So if the shifter got out? Tried to take over from dad… or me?"

"Then my wolf – _I_ – would stop it." Sam answered seriously. "At all costs. I'd protect my alphas... my pack."

It was strange, trying to reconcile the wolf and human parts of his brother, but Dean found that this new revelation, at least, he could make a little sense of. It made him more than a little uncomfortable to know that at least part of Sam thought he needed to be protected, but he understood that it wasn't because any part of him thought that Dean was helpless – just that he was worth protecting. Like Sam had said, both parts of his brother knew that Dean and his father were more than capable of taking care of themselves, but instinct still dictated that he not let anything bad happen to them.

Weirdly, Dean could relate to that. He'd always felt that it was his job to look after his brother and, to some extent, his father – it was nice to hear that there was at least one other member of his family that felt the same. Dean had never been sure of his father's priorities (even though he claimed that both of his boys were more important than the hunt), and he'd had more than a few moments where he'd doubted Sam's.

"I'm sorry. I know it's weird."

Sam's voice sounded miserable, holding a vulnerable edge to it that made Dean think of a two-year old Sammy who'd scraped his knee, and Dean belatedly realised that he'd remained silent for far too long.

"Hey, hey, no. It's alright. " He reassured, nudging the younger boy's knee with his own. "It's just… I get it, alright? You think I don't feel the same about you and dad? Sammy, the things I'd do for the two of you… that scares me sometimes."

Sam blinked.

"Really?" He asked quietly.

Dean nodded resolutely, and Sam offered him a small smile.

"So you just… tied him up in the basement and left him there?" Bobby asked, clearly incredulous. "Without even using silver?"

"Yes." Dean agreed, keeping his shoulders high despite the fact that, honestly, he hadn't much liked the plan himself. "Sam said that leaving him down there in silver cuffs would be like torture. I figured that I'm not in much of a position to disagree with that, am I? It's not like I have first-hand knowledge on the subject."

Across the room, leaning against one of Bobby's kitchen counters, Sam rubbed his fingers subconsciously, and Dean saw at least a little of the tension slip a little from the older hunter's shoulders at the sight.

"He's a shifter." John said stiffly. "What does it matter? He's a monster."

Sam made an aborted little choking-like noise, and when Dean turned it was to see his back straightening, head held high as he turned to his father.

"I'm a shifter, too. Does that make me a monster?" His eyes met John's squarely, refusing to budge. John looked startled, quickly attempting to backtrack.

"Of course not, Sam. But these shifters are obviously a lot less… civilised than you are. I mean, they broke into Bobby's home and _attacked you_. Look at you_._"

Sam shrugged. "I kind of understand it. It's the same as a normal wolf moving in on another pack's territory – they have to defend it. I mean, Bobby – have you found anything that might even suggest that they've been killing humans?"

"Of course not." Bobby snapped. "I'd have hunted them if I'd found anything."

"Exactly," Sam nodded. "So maybe they're not monsters. Maybe they're just trying to ward off another _animal – _maybe they thought that _I_ was here to hunt humans. I don't think we need to kill him… and we certainly don't need to truss him up in silver and torture him whilst we decide what to do. You can't even being to how much that stuff hurts… It's like being stabbed with a red-hot knife, over and over in the same place. All I was doing was putting bullets in the guns – I can't imagine having that wrapped around your wrists for any length of time."

"You can't be serious." John snapped. "He attacked you! He tried to _kill _you."

"And we killed two of his pack mates!" Sam snapped right back. "That's more than enough punishment, believe me!"

"And if he comes after you?" John said sharply. "Or one of us, as revenge? How about Dean?"

"Then I'll take care of it." Sam's tone was even, steady, but his eyes were dark with anger and determination. It was times like these that Dean wished that his father and brother could see just how alike they were. "Then I'll kill him knowing that he deserved it."

"You can't protect him out of a misplaced sense of loyalty," John sighed. "He's not like you, Sam. He's dangerous. He's a killer."

"So are you!" Sam shouted, fists in tight balls by his side. "We _all_ are – even me! Killing things is what we do, dad – it's our lives, so don't you stand there and tell me that he deserves to die for it. This isn't loyalty, it's being humane, and it's refusing to be cruel. There's a difference, and if you can't see it then I don't even know who you are anymore."

Shocked silence followed, heavy and still. Dean felt like he was trying to breathe underwater, like all of the air had been sucked out of the room in the wake of his family's anger. He hated watching them fight like this; knowing, distantly, that one day one of them was going to push too hard and everything he'd worked for would come crashing down around his ears.

"Let the shifter go, John." Bobby cut in quietly, observing the two of them cautiously. "The kid's right. If he'd been killing humans, I'd have noticed – we have no proof that he's done anything worse than what we do everyday."

John didn't answer, his gaze still locked on his youngest son, and Sam's shoulders began to slump inwards. The fire leeched from his eyes, leaving behind an earnest expression.

"Please. Believe me, dad. He suffered enough when we killed the other two… pack is everything to a shifter. It's more than being family, or being friends. Watching them die? To him, we couldn't have done anything worse."

There was something in the way he said it, something about his defeated posture that struck Dean – he looked like a little kid again, lost and afraid. Clearly, the kid knew what he was talking about. He might only have been a shifter for a matter of weeks, but in their line of work that was long enough to worry about someone you loved dying… if pack really meant that much to a shifter, Sam would know.

Clearly, John recognised that, too.

"If he comes after you again," He said softly. "If he goes after any human, there'll be no more second chances. Just a silver bullet to the heart and another dead body under the junkers out back. You understand?"

Sam smiled, relief evident in the very line of his shoulders. "Yes, sir."

Sam wanted to be the one to let the shifter go, to talk to him before releasing him. The very idea had every big brother instinct in Dean screaming protests, barely reassured by the knowledge that himself, Bobby and John would be no further than a few steps away – guns trained on the shifter the entire time. Sam insisted, and in light of that look on his face in the kitchen, Dean begrudgingly relented.

By the time that they made their way down to the panic room, the shifter had (predictably, because there was a reason that they were usually restrained in silver) found his way free of the ropes. Surprisingly, however, he didn't make to attack when they headed inside – his eyes remained focused on Sam, but they seemed less vicious than the night before.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked softly, empathy in his voice, and Dean could see his father shift uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye.

"You tell me, pup." The stranger snapped. "How do you think I'm feeling?"

"Beyond crappy." Sam snorted, a wry almost bitter sound. "Probably a little murderous."

"That about sums it up."The shifter acknowledged. "Now why don't you do us both a favour? Stop playing nice, spilling all of this emotional shit like you care, and just kill me already."

Sam sighed. "I'm not going to kill you. We're going to let you go."

"Why would you do that?"

Dean had expected surprise, perhaps gratitude. If anything the shifter seemed amused by this news.

"I know what you're thinking – that you'll come back and kill us. Get your revenge." Sam shrugged casually, even as Dean's eyes widened. "But see, from what little I saw inside your head, you seem like a pretty smart guy. Do the maths here – we're hunters, and there's four of us. On the off chance that you kill all four of us, do you really think that more aren't gonna come and check out what happened? Hunt you down? Because they will, and when they do, it won't be pretty."

Dean winced a little at the mention of Sam being inside the shifter's head, watching his father's head snap to his youngest son and recalling – moments too late – that they might have glossed over that little part of their earlier rehashing of the night's events.

"So here's my suggestion," Sam said calmly, slowly pulling his knife out of his jeans pocket. "Either I use this knife to cut the ropes and let you go, and you head on home and don't bother us again, or you come back in a few days and my dad over there digs you a nice spacious grave under one of the old junkers out back."

There was silence in the panic room for a few moments, and then the shifter grinned.

"What's your name, pup?"

"Sam."

"You know, Sam. You've got balls." The shifter's voice was almost approving Sam, as cool as ever, raised an eyebrow and tilted his head towards the knife in his hand, spinning it effortlessly over his fingers to catch in his hands again. Dean couldn't resist a smirk at the slightly panicked look on the shifter's face at the ease of the movement. "I think if you cut the ropes, we'll have ourselves a deal."

Sam grinned, studiously ignoring it when John sighed, and slipped into place to slice the ropes. John's finger tightened on his trigger, and Dean couldn't resist the urge to shift closer, but the shifter raised his hands slowly in the air.

"Look, I never thought I'd say this to someone who'd killed two members of my pack, but I can understand why you did what you did, and you showed me a mercy where most others wouldn't have… especially hunters." The shifter said carefully, eyes locked on Sam. "Shifters repay their debts, so if you're ever in need… you can call on me."

Sam's eyes widened, and John's scowl deepened.

"We can take care of ourselves, just get gone already."

The shifter nodded, edging past the three elder hunters and heading straight for the door.

"Wait!" Sam's voice stopped the shifter in his tracks and he turned slowly, cocking his head in a strangely animalistic gesture of curiosity. "What's your name?"

The shifter grinned, darting for the door, his voice drifting down the steps behind him in a faint echo of his reply.

"Donovan," Sam mused. "He seemed almost… nice."

John rolled his eyes, nodding towards the stairs. "Bobby, make sure that the son of a bitch has really left. I don't much fancy being murdered in my sleep tonight."


	10. Chapter 10

**ten**

The next morning, John woke them with coffee, bagels and the promise of being out of the state by midday. Dean argued until he was pretty sure he was blue in the face, but Sam was unusually compliant – packing his stuff without a single eye roll or complaint, and eventually the older of the two Winchester boys gave in.

John's excuse for leaving was a simple as ever – a hunt in northern Minnesota; he claimed that whilst neither of them would be expected to help, it would be unfair of them to stay and burden Bobby any longer, and it would be nice to swing by and visit Pastor Jim when he was finished, regardless.

Sam had perked up at the mention of the Pastor. Dean had seen the two of them sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table late at night, when Dad had drunk himself to sleep and Dean himself had claimed an early retirement, noting their heads bent over the familiar shape of an open bible. He understood that the two of them shared something that he, himself, would never comprehend – there had been too much loss in Dean's life for him to hope for some kind of higher being, but he was glad that his brother could find solace in the idea.

Bobby was understandably reluctant to let the two of them head out with their father, but Dean reassured him that if things headed south in any way, they'd head back without a second thought. He wouldn't risk his brother for a fractured relationship with his father, there was no doubt about it.

"If you need help with anything," The gruff old hunter informed him firmly, with a less than discreet glance at their father. "Then you don't hesitate to call, you hear? Doesn't matter where you are. If you need me, I'll be there."

"Trust me," Dean grinned. "I'll call if I need to."

Sam had offered the older hunter a hug before retreating to the car, uncharacteristically quietly and curling up on the seat. Dean followed after him, pausing for a long moment at the trunk to check that they had everything before shutting it and heading to his seat; Sam had knocked the stereo on, the soothing sounds of Metallica playing at a soothing level. Dean contemplated turning it up as the two of them pulled out of the driveway to Singer Salvage, but there was something about the slump of the younger boy's shoulders that had him leaving it turned down.

"You doing okay, kid?" He asked softly, glancing worriedly at his brother. The kid had been under an unfair amount of pressure over the last few weeks, not to mention the strain of the physical pain from the shifts (and _not_ shifting) and the guilt of his first kill.

Sam half-turned and yawned widely, nodding his head a little. It was so classic 'kid-Sam' when he was a few hours overdue for a nap that Dean couldn't help but grin, settling a little more comfortably into his seat.

"There's a blanket in the back somewhere," He commented mildly, but Sam just shrugged, mumbling something that vaguely resembled an _''M fine.'_

Dean grinned again, shaking his head slightly as Sam gradually slumped further and further against the Impala's door, eyes carefully watching the road even as he reached back and fumbled blindly across the blanket that he distinctly remembered tossing there a few weeks earlier – finally his fingers tangled in the well-washed material and he tugged it over the top of the seat and spread it across the form of his exhausted brother one handed, years of trying to raise a kid while still being one yourself enabling him to do the entire thing one handed, and not lose concentration on the road.

"There you go, kid." He grinned to himself, pressing his foot down on the gas pedal a little harder, watching as on the road ahead of them their father sped up in response.

He shouldn't have been surprised that his brother had drifted off so quickly; the only lullaby that Sam had ever known was the steady thrum of the Impala's engine and the cool leather of her seats.

From the speakers, the faint drone of _Sanitarium_ echoed, and Dean flicked to the next song without hesitation – it was the only Metallica song that Sam disliked. Dean had teased him about it when they were younger, but it had soon become evident that the kid wasn't lying about his aversion to the song; just hearing the opening chords could have him jittery for a matter of hours.

Once, Dean had found himself humming it without thought, and Sam hadn't spoken to him for three days, convinced that he'd done it on purpose. Dean hadn't played it in the kid's presence ever since, even when Sam was passed out and none the wiser; he still wasn't sure what it was about the song – whether it was the lyrics or the music, but it hadn't taken a genius to figure out that it was best left well alone.

Rolling his eyes a little at himself, he couldn't help but tug the kid's blanket tighter around him.

"The things I do for you, Sammy." He muttered to himself, amused at the fact that the mere presence of the kid seemed to turn him into an overprotective momma bear.

Their father pulled into a slightly grottier than usual motel for lunch, already on the phone by the time that Dean had roused a fuzzy looking Sam and guided him out of the Impala, holding him upright for a few seconds whilst the kid's head caught up with his body.

"You must have been out cold dude," He remarked, eyeing his brother critically. "You sure you're alright?"

"That last shift really wore me out," Sam muttered around a yawn, snuggling further into his hoodie. "But I'm fine. Just tired and a little achy."

Dean nodded, not entirely convinced but willing to lay the whole thing to bed until they at least got some food in their stomachs – they generally didn't snack in the car, and it had been far too long for Dean's liking since they'd consumed their bagel breakfast. Sam seemed content enough, sticking close to Dean's side as they headed inside just a few moments after their father.

John, as usual, selected their booth strategically – keeping them fairly far away from the other customers, but also within a safe distance to the exits and at an angle that allowed them to see pretty much everyone else in the building. Dean slid into the booth after his brother, that same momma bear instinct as earlier wanting Sam nearer the window and a little more sheltered from the rest of the room.

The kid didn't give Dean his standard glare for the action, but smiled gratefully, slipping across the linoleum seating with what appeared to be relief. Dean smiled back, sinking into the booth a little further than he'd have liked as he sat down. He hated when chairs seemed to absorb you – not only was it annoying as hell, it also meant that if anything went wrong, he'd waste a precious few seconds trying to wrestle himself free.

Across the booth, John was also squirming uncomfortably, settling on the edge of the booth as if rebelling against the squishiness of the surface.

"Stupid booths." He muttered to himself, tugging the hem of his leather jacket out from underneath him. "Always too hard or too soft."

"Easy there, Goldilocks." Dean laughed. "It's not that bad – remember the ones in Fitzberg? We sank in so far that I never thought we'd get out again."

John paused a moment, as if unable to believe that his oldest was back to laughing and joking with him, before nodding – a wide grin splitting across his face.

"Sammy nearly didn't," He recalled. "We had to grab an arm each and tug – nearly took out a waitress in the progress."

"I was _six._" Sam interrupted, shaking his head at the older men. He wasn't back to his usual emphatic self, but at least he was joining in the conversation.

A waitress took that moment to interrupt, a woman a little older than their father with peroxide-blonde hair and a smile faker than any Dean had seen before, who took their orders with a tone not quite bordering on friendly. The three of them gave their orders politely enough, Sammy surprising them all when he ordered a hamburger instead of his usual salad.

At their raised eyebrows, the kid just shrugged, fiddling with the corner of the menu. It took only a few seconds for Dean to realise that it was probably a shifter thing – after all, Sammy had a full on carnivore in him now. He was gonna have to appease it somehow.

"Got to admit," Dean grinned, slinging his arm across the back of the diner booth and flicking his brother's shoulder affectionately. "I could get used to not having to put up with all of your rabbit food. Steaks and hamburgers are a lot more manly."

Sam frowned. "Nobody said anything about steaks."

"Just give it time." Dean grinned, exchanging a mischievous look with his father.

Sam's frown turned into a scowl, and he elbowed his brother in the ribs, his eyes narrowed in contempt.

"You're a dick." He snapped, and turned immediately crimson when it became evident that the waitress who'd bought their food had heard. The poor kid's manners were far too well defined for a hunter, and Dean could practically feel the guilt radiating off him when he offered the waitress a sheepish smile.

"Don't you worry 'bout me," The woman grinned, offering the seventeen-year-old a cheeky wink. "I can assure you I've heard much worse in my time."

Having heard his father and other hunters that age happily swearing up a storm like it was normal behaviour, Dean could well believe it. She dished out their food merrily enough, Sam's embarrassment having apparently lightened her mood a little. Once sure that everything had been correctly handed out, she offered Sam one more wink and retreated back into the kitchen to collect her next order.

Sam was still beet red, picking at his fries and studiously avoiding eye contact.

"I think she liked you, son." John teased, reaching across the table to nudge Sam's arm. Sam ducked his head further.

"Yeah, Sammy." Dean chimed in. "That was a real great way to make a first impression."

"I hate you both," Sam groaned, but his frown broke gradually into a grin and he finally started eating his meal rather than playing with it. It was the first time that he'd shown any kind of enthusiasm since he'd first been cursed, and Dean found himself wondering if – sometime during that bantering and teasing – they hadn't just turned a corner.

It was another five hours of driving before John finally pulled into a motel room. As if to make up for unusually crappy diner, it looked more expensive than usual – the beds and floors cleaner than normal, and the bathroom free from grime and errant hairs.

Dean had figured that John would probably head out as soon as they got there to carry out the usual recon – getting as close to the crime scenes as he could without attracting attention and scouting out the areas; putting together patterns and looking for clues that only a hunter would know to look for.

Instead, he dumped his duffel on the table and settled down on one of the two beds, kicking his boots off and resting back against the headboard, muttering something about ordering pizza as he grabbed the remote. For a long moment, both Dean and his brother paused unsurely – exchanging a brief glance of confusion; finally, the older of the two dumped his bag next to his fathers and copied his act of dropping down onto the bed.

Sam followed their lead after a few brief seconds, elbowing Dean over to make more room for his skinny frame on the bed.

"Do you want me to ask for a cot?" John asked, glancing over. Dean's first assumption was that his father was being sarcastic, calling Sam out on his wriggling, but he seemed serious enough, stretching a hand out to hover over the phone.

"It's alright." Dean shrugged, offering his father a smile. "Not like it's the first time we've shared, and these beds are a lot roomier than usual."

John nodded, hand closing back around the remote as he channel hopped absently. Finally, he settled on the first _Mummy_ film, relaxing back into the bed as Rick and Evelyn casually flirted and managed to outsmart the mummy at nearly every turn. Against his side, Sam's muscles relaxed further and further as the teenager leant against his brother, and Dean found comfort of his brother pressed warm and safe against his side.

The older of the two brothers found himself absently wondering whether or not anyone had ever hunted a mummy, and – if they had – whether it had been as easily outmanoeuvred as Imhotep. Next to him, Sam's shoulder shook with small giggles and Dean found himself grinning, sinking further into the bed.

Across the room, John eyed the profile of his two sons, relaxed and happy for the first time in what felt like forever and grinned to himself.


	11. Chapter 11

**eleven**

"So, you're thinking that it's just a vengeful spirit?"

John nodded, thumbing distractedly through the records he'd pulled from the library earlier.

"Looks that way," He offered, sending Sam an easy smile over the top of the papers. "All of the people killed were, in some way, close to her husband – who, by the looks of things, was the one that killed her. I'm thinking she's going after everyone who knows what happened."

Sam nodded, absently running a whetstone over the knife in his hand (which, Dean had sneakily checked before handing him, was not silver – the kid still had burns on the tips of his fingers from handling the silver bullets days before).

His hands moved with a practiced ease and Dean couldn't help but feel a little bit proud as Sam expertly sharpened the blade without ever taking his eyes off their father. Whilst the kid hadn't always loved their lives as hunters the way that Dean did, it was reassuring to know that he'd never _not_ tried at anything. He was far better with knives than Dean or John, and Dean couldn't recall the last time he'd missed a target (moving or otherwise).

"Wish you'd look at what you were doing." John told his youngest son, and Dean bristled instantly at the reprimand before recognising that it hadn't been said to annoy or scold, but with a faint exasperation that had his lips turning up at the corners despite himself. Mischief glinting in his eyes, Sam shifted the whetstone into his left hand and lightly – and expertly – twirled the blade around his fingers, keeping his eyes locked on his father.

John groaned, covering his eyes and peeking out from between his fingers like a small-child playing peek-a-boo.

Sam laughed, flipping the blade around his fingers once more – reversing the direction this time, because the kid was a little show off – before falling back into the easy rhythm of sharpening, making a point of dropping his eyes to the knife.

"One day," John warned him, tone still as light. "You'll cut yourself and wish you'd listened to me."

Sam shrugged.

"Probably," He admitted, with a small but decidedly cheeky grin. "But until then, I'll continue to do it at every given opportunity if only just to piss you off."

For possibly the first time Dean could remember, their father's response to Sam's comment was to throw his head back and laugh, an open carefree sound that appeared to almost startle his younger brother. Within moments, Sam's own giggles were breaking through and Dean felt his face split into a wide, fond grin.

Perhaps it was possible to keep his family together, after all.

As it turned out, John was right about the small town's problem being nothing more than a ticked-off ghost. He let himself into the room at five am the next morning with a wide grin on his face and not so much as a bruise, manoeuvring around the room with a practiced silence, as if not to awaken his sons.

It was a wasted effort.

Dean had been trained from a young age to wake at the slightest noise, wary of possible dangers even in sleep, and whilst it wasn't something either of them had ever tried to train into Sam – perhaps in the naïve hope that it was a skill that the youngest Winchester would ever need to employ - Dean knew his brother did the same.

At the quiet snick of the door swinging shut, Dean's eyes opened just in time to catch his brother rolling back onto his side facing away from the door, apparently noting that it was just their father – and that he was, by the looks of things, entirely uninjured – before curling himself back into a ball and drifting off into what appeared to be a peaceful sleep.

Perhaps for the first time ever in their lives, Dean found it harder to drop off again, watching their father as he made his way around the room. The older hunter carefully slipped a knife between the mattress and the bed frame and a gun under the pillow, taking a second Glock into the bathroom with him and tucking it onto the small shelf a few inches below the window.

He washed quickly and efficiently, the slightly ajar door providing Dean with enough light to watch his father clean the grave dirt from his face before stripping down to his boxers and leaving his clothes in a quasi-neat pile in the corner under the sink, alongside Sam's own neat pile. Dean could just about make out his own jeans sticking out from the small gap between the toilet and the shower, the rest of his clothes nowhere to be seen.

Finally, the older hunter pulled the covers back and climbed gratefully into his bed, his lips quirking up in a surprised smile when his eyes met Dean's.

"Everything alright?" He asked, voice carefully hushed. Next to Dean, Sam stirred briefly before settling again, brain registering and dismissing his father's voice even in sleep.

Dean just nodded, allowing his eyes to drift shut and his body to relax into the mattress.

"-never sleeps this long!"

"It's fine, Dad. It's not like we're in a rush – just leave him to sleep."

Dean blinked awake, despite Sam's hushed tone, and his bleary eyes immediately located the clock sat on the nightstand. He was more than a little surprised when his brain registered what the clock was telling him – that it was just gone one in the afternoon. Sam's words came back to him, and he lazily ran a hand through his hair before dragging himself up into what was (technically) an upright position.

"Afternoon, son." John greeted, mirth dancing in his eyes. "We wondered when you were finally gonna wake up. You feeling alright?"

Dean took a moment to internally assess himself, before nodding. "Never better. Coffee?"

Sam was already at the kitchen counter, adding milk to a steaming mug that had been left there – John must have made it, since Sammy was the only person who ever remembered that, whilst he usually preferred his coffee as black as tar, Dean loved nothing more than a coffee with a little milk in to wake him up.

The teenager fetched it over, settling happily onto the bed next to him and nearly making Dean spill the drink as he wriggled his way into a comfortable position.

"Watch it." Dean groused, but his brother just rolled his eyes, wriggling for a few more prolonged seconds before settling back again.

"So," Sam said conversationally after a long moment, pulling John once more from writing in his journal. Dean expected an exasperated comment about how '_recording what we do is important damnit!'_ for the disruption, but their father just glanced up.

"Pastor Jim's today." The youngest Winchester continued evenly, though Dean could see the way that his eyes flickered from his father's face down to the journal and back again, as if worried that his father would be angry.

John – despite their obviously scared expectations - nodded amicably, tucking his pen inside the journal to keep his page.

"Unless you'd rather spend another night here?"

Sam shook his head, glancing up at his older brother. "I'm up for travelling, if that's alright with Dean."

"Fine by me." Dean shrugged, carefully balancing his coffee mug on his knee with a hand wrapped lightly around it. "It'll be nice to see Jim again."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, lets hope for your sake that he doesn't still have Ivan - I'm not sure your pride can handle being taken down by a tiny little cat twice."

"Hey!" The elder brother defended, tone indignant. "Ivan is _vicious_, and he's _crazy_. Not to mention that he has claws and teeth! I was at a disadvantage!"

"It's okay," Sam grinned mockingly, placed a hand on his brother's shoulder in what was clearly supposed to be a consoling manner. "I'll protect you."

Dean huffed loudly into his mug, shaking Sam's hand off even as their father chuckled a little and turned back to his journal. The fell into an oddly comfortable silence as Dean drained the last dregs of coffee from the cheap mug, wincing a little at the acrid taste of coffee granules that hadn't been fully absorbed by the water.

He couldn't help but eye his little brother out of the corner of his eye as he drank, relieved to find that for the first time in weeks, Sam looked just as healthy as he had before that godforsaken witch hunt… perhaps even better. His skin was no longer pale, but had a healthy – almost tanned – glow to it, and the black bags under his eyes had all but disappeared.

Leaning back against the headboard, he looked relaxed – happy. It was startling to realise that Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd thought of those words in relation to his brother. Even before the witch hunts, Sam had been floundering – fighting their dad about everything to do with hunting, bickering with Dean when the older Winchester tried to take their father's side.

Dean knew that the kid had been thinking of taking off to college when he could; had found to brochures hidden in his sock drawer three states back and had spent three nights furious with his brother for trying to hide that from them… for even _considering_ something as ludicrous as going away to school.

It wasn't until he'd really looked at his brother, struggled to recall the last time he'd heard the kid really_laugh_ that he'd changed his mind. It had hurt, of course, to think that one day in the not-so distant future he'd have to let go of the kid that he'd practically raised, but if it meant that Sam might have a chance at true happiness – something that, Dean had realised, he'd never achieve as a hunter – then he'd do it.

Now, Sam would never have that chance.

It was proof of how strong the kid was that he was still smiling and laughing with his father and brother. Dean knew with a sick certainty that Sam was more than well aware that everything he'd dreamed for was now beyond impossible; the witch's curse had changed his life in more way than one, forever tying him to the supernatural and ruining the chance for the escape that he'd longed for.

Since the hunt, Sam had never once mentioned school. He'd missed nearly three weeks of term-time, something which had caused more than one argument in the past, and Dean knew that it wasn't because he'd spent most of that time sick or injured. Hell, Sam had once suffered a blow to the stomach so bad that he'd needed surgery to repair his spleen and had been begging (fruitlessly) to go back to school within a few days.

Dean wondered if, whether their father broached the topic, Sam would even want to go back. There was nothing there for him now, not the way that there'd been the way before. Dean didn't know quite what to make of that.

Sam's eyes flickered towards him, a frown pulling the edges of his mouth down, and Dean realised belatedly that he was staring.

"Top up?" He asked with a cheeky grin, holding his mug up and ignoring his stomach's protests at the thought of more coffee before food.

Sam rolled his eyes, but obediently grabbed the cup and headed back over to the kettle.

Perhaps the saddest part of the whole idea was the fact that some part of Dean, some part deep down that he liked to pretend didn't exist, was glad that the opportunity to leave had been snatched away from his brother. He wasn't sure what he'd have down if Sam had left, but he knew himself well enough to know that it wouldn't have been pretty.

As if sensing his somewhat maudlin mood, Sam sighed loudly as he crawled back onto the bed and held another cup of coffee, – black, this time, and Dean fought to keep the grin off his face at just how well his brother knew him – out for his brother to take. He winced slightly, Dean presumed at the pull on the wound on his side, but settled quickly enough that the older man was happy enough to shrug it off.

"Don't get used to this," The younger brother warned. "I'm only serving as your personal slave this morning because I'm in a good mood."

"Well, then," Dean shot back. "I'd best make the most of it before my bitchy little brother makes his return. Breakfast, please, slave."

Sam scowled.


	12. Interlude: Part One

**Interlude: Part One**

Jim Murphy sighed, resting his pen down on his notepad to once more shake the cramp from his hand. His body was growing old on him, and it wasn't long before he'd be forced to give into young Samuel's suggestion that he type his sermon notes, rather than write them by hand. It was strange to recall, sometimes, that these same hands that ached after a page full of notes had once been so competent in delivering the world from evil.

Still, those days were long behind him, though he wasn't too proud to admit that some days he yearned fiercely for the company of other men – and women – who knew the same things that he did, had fought in the same war. He loved his congregation dearly, but there was something limiting in looking each one of them in the face and realising that they had no real concept of the horrors that lay in wait for them.

Perhaps that was why his mood had picked up so much since John Winchester had phoned to say that he and his boys were on their way. It was unusually formal for a man who usually turned up on his doorstep entirely unannounced and left his boys – or, usually, boy – there for days at a time with no prior warning.

Still, it wasn't like Jim had ever minded the surprise visits. For all of the times that the Pastor had been forced to struggle to keep his temper in hand whilst dealing with their father, and he needed more than two hands to count those, Jim loved the man's boys as dearly if they were his own.

Both of them were remarkable young men, particularly given the unusual manner in which John had raised them (or, more correctly, they'd raised each other). Moreover, the bond between them was like nothing Jim had ever seen before; he'd seen close siblings before, had been one many years ago, but Sam and Dean were truly something else.

The rumbling of a familiar engine pulled Jim from his reverie, and he hastily tucked his pen between the pages of a weather-worn Bible, flicking the book shut and resting his notepad on top. He swung the kitchen door open with a small grin that he couldn't help, leaning on the door frame and taking care to gently nudge Ivan out of the way as he did so.

The ginger cat mewled pitifully, blinking up at Jim innocently, but the hunter knew better than to be fooled – whilst the cat had taken to Sam within a heartbeat, he'd reacted in an entirely opposing manner to the other Winchester brother. Jim was pretty sure that Dean still had scars from their last encounter.

"You stay here," He told the cat sternly, nudging it further into the kitchen. "And when Dean comes in, you had better be polite, you understand me?"

The cat blinked evenly, mewling once more, and Jim shook his head with a sigh as he stepped out into the cool late afternoon air.

John was already half-way up the porch steps, his boys trailing slightly behind. Jim counted five duffels and couldn't help but roll his eyes; John was a paranoid man, had been for as long as the Pastor could remember, and despite Jim's reassurances he still insisted on bringing his own stash of weapons into the house. The boys, as ever, had followed where their father led – their own weapons duffel tossed over Dean's shoulder.

"John," The Pastor greeted warmly. "Boys. It's nice to see you all again – it's been far too long since you last swung by this place."

"It has indeed," John acknowledged, patting his friend on the shoulder, unable to keep the warm grin from his face. Jim was one of the few people that John could call a friend, and the only one whom he'd never once fallen out with, the elder man having proven immune to all of John's fits of temper; as a result, John considered him possibly the best friend that he had. "How have things been around here, old man?"

"Uneventful." Jim laughed, greeting the two younger hunters with a warm embrace. As always, Dean patted his back awkwardly, but Sam was happier with the hug, his muscles relaxing in the older man's hands. "I imagine that the same can't be said for the three of you. I learnt very early on that life is _never_uneventful for a Winchester – why don't you come in and tell me all about it?"

Dean tensed a little, and Sam ducked his head, and the Pastor had the distinct impression that he'd somehow plucked a nerve. John, as always, was frustratingly void of a discernible emotion, his face carefully blank as he turned and led the small group into the kitchen.

Jim let the boys in ahead of him, watching the terse way in which Dean held himself, the way that he didn't kick his boots off as soon as he was inside – as was customary – and the way that dropped his duffel next to the door, rather than heading through the house to drop it into the bedroom that he and Sam shared.

"Oh, dear." The Pastor muttered to himself, following the small family into the kitchen and hoping – praying – that whatever unfortunate events had lead to Dean preparing to take off at a moment's notice weren't as bad as Jim feared.

Jim's stomach flipped sickeningly.

On the table, Sam's fingers lightly and reverently traced over the leather binding of the Holy Book; fingers tracing the words 'Bible' over and over as if searching for courage or, perhaps, benediction.

For a brief moment, Jim found himself scrambling for an excuse to get them all out of this situation – some chore or errand that he could fabricate to save them all from the tension of the current moment. He didn't, handing out the steaming mugs instead, before settling into a chair of his own.

Sam folded his hands into his lap, and Jim faltered openly.

"I'm assuming that I was correct in thinking that things haven't been as uneventful for the three of you as they have for me?" He asked carefully, sipping from his steaming mug and eyeing the three men before him through the steam of the hot drink.

"That's one way of putting it," Dean snorted, a rough and bitter sound. Next to him, Sam shifted uncomfortably and dipped his head further – Dean's eyes rested resolutely on the Pastor, even as he shifted to drop an arm around the back of his brother's chair, fingers brushing the younger man's shoulder in a casual display of affection. Sam relaxed a little.

"We had a bit of a mishap on a witch hunt." John offered after an extended pause, and Jim winced. It was common knowledge in the hunting community that witch hunts were one of the worst; not, perhaps, in regards to the witches themselves, but of the extended (and frankly terrifying) list of potential consequences of a hunt going bad where spells and magic were involved.

Witches could do more than just hurt a person; could do much worse than make them bleed. It was a lesson that many a hunter had learnt the hard way before the Winchesters, and one that the elder hunter had hoped the three of them would never have to learn.

"Mishap?" He queried, unsure if he really wanted to know any more details.

Surprisingly, it was Sam who responded, lifting his eyes from the table for the first time. The hazel was as breathtaking as ever, a colour unlike any other that Jim had ever seen, and yet the young hunter looked somehow lost.

"I got myself cursed." He said, tone flat and even. "The witch was turning kids into puppies, and when she realised that she was trapped she threw the spell at me as a defence. Turns out that it wasn't intended to _keep_ the kids as puppies, but to give them the ability to shapeshift."

Jim blinked, in what – he reflected – was probably a somewhat dumb manner.

"In short," Sam concluded. "I can now shapeshift into a lovely canine form. I have to turn about once a week otherwise I get sick, I can communicate with other shapeshifters in my head and – apparently – silver burns me. Surprise!"

His tone was somewhat bitter, but he seemed at least a little relieved to get the entire thing off his chest.

"And it's permanent?" Jim found himself asking, sounding surprisingly calm even to his own years.

Eyes widening, Sam just nodded mutely.

"As far as we can tell," Dean acknowledged. "The witch is dead and her grimoire was toasted. Bobby can't find any other way to reverse it."

Jim nodded thoughtfully, running things through in his head. Finally, he offered the youngest of the three Winchester men a small smile.

"So, Sam, what exactly is it that you shift into?"

"Erm," Sam faltered. "Excuse me?"

Jim laughed. "What do you shift into?"

"A wolf," Sam admitted. "Wait, you're okay with all of this?"

Jim frowned. "Why wouldn't I be? Of course, I understand that it must have been distressing, but it doesn't change anything. You're still the same person, Samuel."

On the other side of the table, John frowned.

He knew that the small family shared that loyalty, and that Winchester loyalty was nothing to be taken lightly. When the small family loved, they did it just as fiercely as they did everything else in their lives.

There were few hunters on the earth that Jim trusted even half as much as he trusted the Winchesters, and even them he kept a safe distance. There was a huge risk in staying in one place like Jim did, in involving other people so much in his life, and he'd long since accepted that it was usually better for everyone that he kept his distance from the hunting community unless there a situation arose in which there was simply nobody else to help.

The small family were the only hunters that he'd ever invited into his home, and perhaps the only other hunter that Jim could ever see himself extending that invitation to would be Bobby Singer – who had a nice little home, and a life, of his own. He knew that the other man shared his affection for the Winchesters, and it was one of many reasons that the two of them had found themselves friends.

They ate dinner in a comfortable silence, trading the occasional story about what they'd been up to in the months since they'd last seen each other with a fairly happy atmosphere, save for a brief altercation between Dean and Ivan, who had finally managed to sneak past Jim and had gone straight for the young hunter's ankles.

Thankfully, Sam had been quick to intervene, scooping the cat up into the air. Like always, Ivan seemed to almost collapse into the youngest Winchester's arms with a loud rumbling purr, tucking his head under the Sam's chin and rubbing his head back and forth there affectionately.

"Stupid thing," Dean muttered under his breath, eyes flittering longingly across the room to where he'd kicked his boots off next to the door, as if debating the merits of slipping them back on. "What the hell have I ever done to you, huh?"

"I wouldn't take it personally," The Pastor offered. "I give him two meals a day, as well as a roof over his head and a warm bed, and he barely tolerates me."

Sam mock-glared at them both, smoothing over the cat's ears.

"You're just misunderstood," He soothed, tickling the small animal under the chin and smiling as the ginger tom's purrs increased in volume. "Aren't you, Ivan?"

The cat, who always had been a master of good timing, mewed loudly.

Chuckling, Jim couldn't help but to once again regret that the youngest Winchester had been raised in the kind of lifestyle where this kind of domesticity, the kind of life that the kid evidently thrived in, was always just beyond his reach.

Whilst both he and Dean were truly spectacular hunters, better in many ways then much older men who had been training for decades, it was clear to anyone who took the time to look that hunting wasn't the same passion for Sam as it was for John and Dean.

Frankly, it was understandable – whilst both John and Dean had made it their life's work to seek revenge for Mary, to seek vengeance for the life that had been snatched from them so cruelly in the fire, Sam had never known his mother. He didn't have the memories of a happy family life with her to drive him onwards.

All Sam had ever known was the hunt.

He had been raised in a world of perpetual fear, and until that afternoon Jim could have sworn that – sometime in the future – Sam was destined to break all of their hearts and leave. Now, like the normal childhood he had longed for, that escape was just one more thing that their lifestyle had stolen from the young man before him.

And yet, he was still sat across the wooden table, smiling and joking and vehemently refusing to roll over and give up.

Jim was sure that he'd never loved the boy more than in that moment.

The young hunter sunk into his usual chair, which Jim had pulled up to the rickety desk out of habit, in silence. Almost in an automatic gesture, his hand dropped to the Bible that Jim had left there, fingers once more following the familiar pattern of the gold lettering.

Jim didn't talk, didn't acknowledge the young man's presence other than to offer him a small smile as Ivan leapt into his lap and curled up, purring contentedly.

"I'd kind of talked myself into thinking that he wouldn't like me anymore." Sam muttered after a while of silence, eyes locked on the bundle of fur in his lap, fingers lightly tickling behind the animal's ears.

ldquo;Animals are more intuitive than we often give them credit for." Jim acknowledged with a soft smile, leaning back into his chair, settling comfortably against the cushy surface. "Regardless of the fact that you now have a few extra… abilities, it's still _you_, Sam."

"Is it?" Sam whispered, hazel eyes lifting reluctantly to lock with the Pastor's. "Because I wonder sometimes."

Jim frowned.

"And what reason do you have to worry about such things?" He asked, unable to keep the concern from your voice. Sam seemed to pale a little.

"Dad thinks I'm a freak." He confessed bitterly, voice timid, as if he expected Jim to announce that he felt the same way. "He swapped his normal knife out for a silver one, wears strapped to his leg as if I wouldn't notice. Some part of him, at least, thinks I'll go bad… and what if I do? What if I hurt someone? Hurt one of them?"

Not for the first time, Jim felt a surge of anger towards his old friend. John had always been easily the most paranoid hunter that Jim had ever met, but he rarely stopped to consider the implications of his actions. Sam was an observant young man, and how John had overlooked the possibility that his son might notice the change in weaponry was beyond Jim.

"You would never hurt your family, Sam." Jim said firmly. "Everyone who knows you knows that much, at least. Even if your dad doesn't always act like it."

Sam nodded wordlessly, clearly unconvinced.

"I keep having this nightmare." He confessed a few moments later. "Over and over. It's like, I shift and something happens and I'm not in control. Sometimes I kill my dad, and sometimes its Dean."

Jim's heart ached for the young man before him.

"Sounds to me that you're scared." Jim prompted quietly, continuing when Sam didn't deny it. "That wouldn't happen, Sam, and even if it did, your father and brother can take care of themselves."

"That just it, though." A bitter laugh forced itself free from Sam's chest, and when his eyes met Jim's they glistened with tears. "Dad would, I guess. But Dean? He'd never lay a hand on me, even to save his own skin."

"You're right," Jim admitted. "But you know I wouldn't lie to you, and I genuinely can't see it ever coming down to that. Please don't dwell on this."

Sam sighed, wordlessly sinking back into his seat and Jim frowned.

Not for the first time, he truly didn't know how to help or comfort for the young boy before him, and in the silence that followed the only he could do was to wordlessly press the bible into the younger boys hands, hoping that he could find that answers that he was looking for in its passages.

He wasn't hopeful.


	13. Interlude: Part Two

**Interlude: Part Two**

Jim debated over whether or not to confront John for quite some time.

After young Samuel had retreated, following his brother up the stairs to the room that they shared, the Pastor had spent almost half an hour spinning a pen in his hand and staring at his desk, trying to work out the best course of action.

It was obvious that someone needed to talk some sense into John, before things got too much for one of his boys, but Jim had known the man long enough to know that the eldest Winchester wouldn't take kindly to someone meddling in his business. He'd been the receiving end of many an irate phone call when Bobby Singer – or one of John's other friends, for that matter – had done that very thing. John didn't like to be told how he should treat his boys.

But that didn't mean that, sometimes, an intervention was necessary.

Mind finally made up, the elderly pastor carefully lay his pen down next to his bible, before following the unmistakable sounds of a field rifle being stripped to the kitchen. John was hunched over the table, gun parts and rags of cloth strewn across the scratched wooden surface; across from him, Ivan was perched on a chair, one paw and his head resting on the table. The hunter was eyeing him as if waiting for an inevitable attack.

"That cat is far too smart to attack somebody with a gun in their hand," Jim laughed, nodding to the body of the weapon, which John was cleaning. "Stripped down or not."

John didn't startle, like many other men in his position would have, but merely shrugged.

"You sure that you checked that it's not some kind of evil cat-shifter?"

Jim smiled despite himself. "I assure you, a shifter would have been entirely unable to step over my threshold without experiencing at least a little discomfort. This house, and the land surrounding it, is plenty protected."

John shrugged, but he refused to take his eyes off the cat, even as Jim sunk into a seat of his own.

"You been talking to that kid of mine?" He asked after a few moments of silence, and though Jim knew that the flippant tone was forced, he couldn't help but wince on Sam's behalf. The Pastor understood John's apparent disregard for his youngest as the act that it was, designed to distance the young man and keep him from hurting John in the way that they'd all expected, but the older hunter couldn't help but wonder if Sam understood that.

"I have indeed," Jim offered honestly. "He's understandably upset at the situation. Perhaps more than that, he's upset with the idea that you've traded your standard knife out for a silver one. That _kid_, as you called him, is observant."

John sighed, dropping the gun to the table and leaning back in his seat. He met the Pastor's eye even as a hand pulled the silver blade in question from his belt, laying it gently on the table.

"You seem pretty sure that I'm not justified in doing so." John said, but his eyes were blazing with an emotion that Jim couldn't name.

"Sam's still your son." Jim pointed out logically.

John shrugged, and a part of Jim hated him from the nonchalance on his face. "Yeah, but he's also a shifter. They're killers, right down to their blood. In case you've forgotten, Jim, we _hunt_ shifters on a daily basis."

"Not Sam." Jim said firmly. "You _know_ that he'd never hurt anybody… much less you or Dean. That boy would rather die than let anything happen, to either one of you. Besides which, he's not a _normal_ shifter, John… hell, if he was he wouldn't be upstairs resting comfortably. He'd still be stuck on the other side of the wards."

"Look," John snapped, an angry edge to his voice that hadn't been there moments before. "I fucked up with the witch, and now Sam's stuck with this… curse, and it sucks. I'm not gonna fuck up again and lose Dean, too. You hearing me, old man?"

"Sam and I are a package deal."

Jim jumped, cursing John Winchester in his head for training his boys to be able to sneak up on even him. Dean was shrouded in shadows, stood stock-still in the doorway, but that didn't stop the Pastor from seeing the fierce determination in his green eyes.

"The sooner you learn that, Dad, the better." His tone was calm, and in that moment – facing down his father – he seemed a lot older than his twenty-two years. "I've already taken him away from you once, and I won't hesitate to do it again. He's the only reason that I'm still within a thousand square miles of you."

Across the table, John faltered visibly for the first time.

"I'm trying to protect you," He protested. "Your brother could be dangerous."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "The only one that's dangerous right now is you, and I won't let you break Sam. I love you, you're my dad, but I love Sam more."

There was no hesitation in his voice, no trace of anything but pure resolve, and the second that John's back was turned, Jim sent him a proud smile.

"You know that I've been giving your brother the benefit of the doubt," John told his eldest irritably. "But there's nothing wrong with being cautious. If your brother is still himself, and I'd like to believe that he is, then surely he should want that."

Dean's face changed from cool indifference to an almost frightening amount of rage.

"The night that Sam found out that silver burnt him, he asked me to carry a silver knife." He confessed. "I said no, because I know Sam better than I know myself sometimes, and I've got no need to be scared."

John bristled. "I'm not scared."

"Really?" Dean asked, eyes dropping his eyes to the knife that was still lying on the table, blade glistening in the kitchen light. "It sure looks like it to me."

The eldest Winchester frowned; hand dropping defensively to the weapon, but Dean was already talking – barrelling right over his father's excuses.

"I'm giving you a choice, here." The young man said stiffly. "Get rid of the knife, or you lose both of us – for good, this time."

He didn't give his father a chance to respond, simply turned and disappeared just as quickly as he'd arrived. John watched after him with a somewhat lost expression, and when he turned his attention to Jim, the elder hunter found himself mimicking the man's son. He stood in silence, waiting for Ivan to sit up and take note, before heading upstairs.

When he passed Sam and Dean's room, he paused there, knocking lightly and propping the door open to allow Ivan to slither in.

Sam and Dean were curled up on the double bed they'd shared since they were kids (Jim had adamantly promised that he'd get them twin beds for months before he'd worked out that they honestly didn't mind sharing, that they liked feeling each other there, knowing that they were alive and warm and safe), Sam facing away from the doorway and his brother wrapped around his back – protecting him.

The sound of the door creaking open had Dean turning to look, and Jim could see the muscles in his forearm tense as his grip about his knife tightened. Paranoid, that boy, however good his reasons were.

He watched with distaste as Ivan trotted into the room, trilling happily as he bypassed Dean entirely and crawled into the gap between Sam and the wall, curling into the younger hunter's stomach.

Sam mumbled something in his sleep, arm coming up to lie over the cat's back, and Dean settled back onto his side, hand coming up so that his fingers were splayed over his brother's ribcage. If Jim hadn't known better – and he did – he might have been worried, but he knew the need to protect and defend when he saw it.

"Goodnight, boys." He whispered, not at all surprised when neither of them responded, and shut the door quietly.

When he slipped into his own bed that night, he was content with the knowledge that – no matter what – the Winchester boys would take care of each other. Even when their father failed them, when they were faced with odds that would have made the most experience hunter break from the pressure, those boys would stay strong.

Sometimes he wondered if they didn't live more for each other than they did for themselves.


	14. Chapter 12

**twelve**

Breakfast the next morning was tense, to say the least, but Dean was grateful to note the absence of the silver knife from his father's belt loops. It seemed that, for all that John was unmistakably hard-headed and stubborn, he was wise enough to note the truth to Dean's promise of taking Sam and going.

Sam, of course, noted was something was up almost as soon as he made it down the stairs, still muzzy-eyed and sleep warm. The kid had been raised a hunter, and if there was one thing that he excelled at it was observation - almost in the same moment that he stepped into the kitchen, his eyes fell to his father's belt and then proceeded to flicker between Dean and Jim. The elder Winchester brother could only be thankful that the kid didn't see fit to call them all out about it right there and then, choosing instead to shoot Dean a wary look and sink into his chair.

Ivan leapt into his lap moments later, purring contentedly as he flopped down in the youngest Winchester's lap. Sitting opposite each other at the table, Dean and John sent the cat identical glowers, each of the subconsciously tucking their hands out of the way. Sam grinned at the sight, effectively breaking the tension, and Dean scowled at him.

"You won't find it so funny when the moggy finally turns on you." He sniped. "Don't worry, when you're left scratched to ribbons and bleeding, we'll try not to say 'I told you so' too often."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Ivan's not going to turn on me, he's just got good taste. He picked the best of the Winchesters to buddy up with."

Dean snorted. "No, he picked the one that's the most susceptible to the kitty-version of puppy dog eyes, that's all. Dad and I just weren't fooled by his innocent exterior, and he's been taking it out on us ever since. Heck, even _Jim_ knows to be wary of the thing."

"I'm not _wary,_" Jim defended, sliding two still-hot plates in front of the two youngest Winchesters, heading back to collect one for himself and John. Dean couldn't help but leer appreciatively at the large breakfast, letting the Pastor's words wash over him as he reached for the ketchup. "I simply don't see the point in taking unnecessary chances. Ivan can be somewhat temperamental and I wouldn't wish to upset the poor creature, that's all."

"Wouldn't wish to anger him, more like." John snorted, grinning a thanks at his friend as the elder man returned with the last of the food. Ivan, as if pleased by the statement, chose that moment to purr loudly, and Sam chuckled to himself, rescuing the ketchup bottle from his over-eager brother.

Relieved that they appeared to have reached a stalemate for the moment, Dean relaxed back into his seat and began to dig into his food with gusto. The elder hunter couldn't help the swell of pride when Sam's shoulders relaxed a second later, as if he'd simply been waiting for his brother to signal that everything was okay.

"You told Dad off about the knife, didn't you?"

"Jesus Christ!" Dean yelped, slamming his head off the underside of the Impala. He pushed out from underneath the car, glowering lightly at his brother. "I'm telling you kid, this family is _destined _for heart attacks."

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's typically melodramatic response, settling cross-legged onto the garage floor a few feet away from the elder hunter. Understanding that his brother obviously wasn't just going to let this one side, Dean pulled himself up into a similar position, propping himself up against the Impala's flank.

"That depends," He frowned. "Are you gonna be pissed at me if I say yes?"

"I probably should be, but no." Sam admitted with a small grin, scuffing his hand through the dust that lay on the garage floor.  
>Dean's eyes followed the path of his fingers, tracing runes and sigils into the floor, before sweeping a hand through them. "Kind of appreciate it, actually. I was kind of worried that I might accidently bump into him and stab myself with the thing, with the way that my luck's been going of late."<p>

Dean couldn't help but grin. "Right. When was the last time that you accidently bumped into _anything_?"

Sam shrugged dismissively, an easy grin on his face. "Like I said, Lady Luck hasn't exactly been favouring me of late."

Dean nodded, figuring that he couldn't exactly argue with the kid on that front. Still, he wasn't about to let it slide by completely without comment.

"Yeah, well. I figure Lady Luck owes us a few good turns, don't you? Maybe things will look up soon."

He didn't expect Sam to laugh, but he couldn't help but be pleased when he realised that it wasn't forced or bitter – it was the innocent, carefree laugh that only then realised that he'd missed fiercely. There'd been a time in their lives when that sound came often and easily; gradually their father had forced them more into the world of hunting, had slowly cut back the small pleasures that they'd enjoyed until it was a struggle to remember what having fun had felt like.

Their life had become coloured in bursts of crimson; blood and adrenaline, danger and fear. They'd grown to be warriors quickly than they'd had any right to, and whilst Dean was undoubtedly proud of the man that his little brother was becoming, he couldn't help but regret that Sam had never had a chance to experience a life without the overbearing weight of dozens of innocent lives resting on his shoulders.

If this curse had taught him anything – and, in reflection, Dean could recognise that it had taught him a lot – it was that there was still ample opportunity for the two of them to salvage a little of that freedom.

They were hunters through and through, their father had – however misguidedly - ensured that there would never be any doubt about that, but Dean was just now beginning to see that being a hunter didn't automatically mean a life of loss and pain. There was still time to have fun, to let go a little and just have fun, and he fully intended to ensure that both him and Sammy did exactly that.

Smiling at his brother he stood, brushing dust and dirt off his pants and holding a hand out for his brother.

"Lunch time, Sammy." He grinned. "Burgers sound good?"

By dinner time Sam was grinning like he'd never stopped, and Dean was pleased to note that the Impala had been left purring sweetly in thanks of the brief tune-up. Jim had refused both boys' offers of doing the dishes, grinning when he'd announced that he was most certain that it was John's turn to partake in the chore.

Sam and Dean had laughingly retreated to the study, Sam resolved to beat his brother at poker, and Dean determined that the kid wouldn't ever beat him.

Their father and Jim joined them a while later, the four hunters crammed comfortably into the small room – Jim had claimed the rickety old desk chair, which Sam had relinquished with a grin, perching on the arm of Dean's chair. John, at the lack of any more seats, had fashioned a few stacks of books into a makeshift perch. He looked, quite frankly, more than a little ridiculous, his large body hunched over in an effort not to topple over any of the books supporting his body weight.

The four of them joked and jested throughout game after game, throwing out light-hearted insults and bantering back and forth in the knowledgeable manner of people that knew each other well.

It was the closest to normal that any of them had felt in a long time, and they stayed there for the most of the night, finally retreating to their rooms when Sam started wavering on his narrow perch, knees tucked up to his chest, and Jim's back began to seize from sitting in one position for such a long time.

Dean couldn't help the wide smile spread across his face for all to see as he climbed into bed, and he didn't need to turn the light on to know that his brother's expression would be matching his own. The kid hadn't stop grinning all night, and Dean's chest felt inexplicably light at the realisation that he'd been right – hunters though they were, it _was_ possible for them to have fun every once in a while.


End file.
